Master of thy Fate
by Codex Serpens
Summary: Scabbers doesn't like his new owner, escapes the Burrow and while on the run meets a runaway young Harry who doesn't know who or what he is. Instinctual, violent Harry.
1. Chapter 1: Meet thy Enemy

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any characters or situations that are unknown in the Harry Potter series are the author's intellectual property and should not be used without permission.

Pursuant to the Berne Convention Implementation Act of 1988 and the Digital Millennium Copywrite Act of 1998, this work is copywrited 2007 with all rights expressly reserved by its author unless explicitly granted. No portion may be reproduced in any fashion without the express written and notarized permission of the author.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters. All characters are creations of Joanne K Rowling, 2007, to whom I am deeply indebted.

Standard Disclaimer: This story may contain sexually graphic and explicit material and it is not suitable for minors. If you are a minor, please leave now, as it is illegal for you to be here. If it is illegal for you to read or view sexually explicit material in the community you view such material, please leave now. This story and characters are purely fictional and any resemblance to events or persons (living or dead) is purely coincidental. If you are offended by sexually explicit stories, please read no further. These stories are just that, stories, and may or may not reflect the opinions of the author.

Right, now my own words, not the legalese I've shamelessly copied and pasted above. There are only so many situations and new ideas one could dream within the H.P. universe; almost everything has been written about in fan-fiction, and I couldn't possibly hope to read and know all fan-fics posted on the web.

Therefore, I claim no property over these ideas and adventures, nor have I intentionally copied or appropriated material from other writers. Some concepts incorporated in this story might be property of better writers, and I apologize for not crediting them because I truly couldn't track all of them down...

* * *

**Master of thy Fate**

**Chapter 1: Meet thy Enemy**

Soft wind carried the scent of fresh cheese, baked bread and ripe fruit through the open door, making his whiskers twitch and his mouth salivate. His white fur shook as the fat rat named Scabbers woke up for his daily hour of activity, mildly stretching and yawning widely.

His cage was left open as was customary, and he peeked around looking for the third eldest son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, the family he'd stumbled upon when running away after framing his former friend Padfoot for murder. He looked down at his disfigured paw and mentally sighed, wondering if he should change his name from Wormtail to Pinkie, given the finger he was missing.

Wormtail was yet another name he answered to, perhaps more appropriate than Scabbers, and both were given names belonging to a wizard long believed to be dead in this world: Peter Pettigrew.

Swinging his hairless tail, Peter took a few steps out of his cage and reached the edge of the painfully tidy desk, snorting at the assembled quills organized by size and the alphabetized books resting on the left corner. A carefully aligned pile of parchment sheets rested slightly off-centre and an unfinished essay on Charms occupied the main work area of the desk.

The white rat who was actually a human wizard looked around the room and choked after seeing the latest addition to a wall of framed awards and certificates of achievement. Between the award for Most Notorious Nitpicker and a First Prize Medal for the 1989-1990 Hogwarts Gobstones Tournament, now proudly hung a stylish certificate for being the All-Time Hogwarts Record of Remembered Rules and Regulations.

"I don't give a rat's arse if Percy Weasley beat my record for highest score in a Gobstones match..." grumbled Wormtail, silently whining to himself because he knew he _did_ care and it annoyed him greatly. "Where's the _power_ and the _glory_ promised by my Dark Lord now? All I got was life in a lousy and smelly cage!"

Agitated by his line of thought and truly regretting his words, he cringed and closed his beady eyes shut, slowly opening one eyelid to look up, expecting Lord Voldemort to fall out of darkened skies riding on a storm of Fiendfyre. It didn't happen, fortunately, and Peter released a deep shaky breath while wiping his whiskers and twitching his pink nose, craving for cheese.

With a lazy stumble he left the desk behind and fell on the bed with a soft thud, waddled over the covers and slid towards the floor, following the scent of food. He felt the tremors of running steps on the wooden floorboards and scurried to the wall just in time to avoid being trampled by the insufferable Weasley twins.

These twins were his worst nightmare, for whenever they caught him out Percy's sight they'd start trying endless incantations or test unsavoury potions of their own creation on him, with the most unexpected and sometimes quite disturbing results. He still shuddered at the memory of his fur evaporating and showing him in all glorious naked pink and bloated flesh.

"It's all _Potter's_ fault!" complained Peter as he dropped one step after another down the crooked staircase. "Always overshadowing me on purpose, always making _me_ look bad in front of everyone!"

The white rat stopped and sat on its hind legs to sniff the air, mouth watering at the smells coming from the kitchen, and finally reached the first floor, racing under the main table dodging agitated feet and moving chairs. Of course what felt like racing to Peter looked more of a sluggish pace of an ancient rodent to the unsuspecting humans towering above.

"Percy, your furry little friend is about to pass out! You better care for it and carry the poor dear downstairs from now on, you hear me?" said the annoying mother of seven in her carefully schooled half-caring, half-threatening voice. She reminded Peter of his own thankfully departed mother, he'd never been happier than the day she pointed her wand and summoned a _broad fir_ instead of the _boar fur_ she used to wear in the evenings.

The house had been ripped apart by the enormous tree and her smashed body found under the rubble. Such sweet memories!

Eagerly reaching for a cube of cheese the youngest Weasley gave him, Peter began chewing and pondering on his miserable life yet again. He'd grown bored with the wild female rats in the shed as they didn't share much; all they wanted was a quickie and bye-bye bloke. Thankfully he didn't have to worry about siring little rodents of his own. How he missed the human version of intimacy, though, and would sometimes fantasize about Narcissa Black in her glorious school years, or then imagine how voluptuous the only girl spawned by the blood-traitors would be when she reached womanhood, if she could avoid the unflattering proportions of her mother but keep the more ... natural attributes he detected as family traits.

"I'll take a stroll along the shed later," Peter thought and smoothed the fur between his ears, making himself more presentable for whatever little lady-mouse he might fancy today.

When breakfast ended and Percy picked him up, upsetting his plans for a good albeit most likely very brief shag, he sagged in resignation and was soon carried up to his cage, given another lump of cheese and locked in. Peter then slumped and watched the boy gathering a few essentials for an outing: travelling cloak, clear parchment, self-inking quill, Hogwarts Book of Rules and an old leather sack.

Knowing he was locked until further notice, he yawned and fell asleep as soon as Percy left the room.

The weeks of Summer passed by and one morning an owl alighted itself on Percy's window to deposit a letter bearing the Hogwarts Seal. The boy picked it up and, with the practised ease of a seasoned pencil-pusher, extracted its contents.

"Ha! Undoubtedly they have recognized my role as a figure of authority among my peers," voiced Percy out loud. "Best Fifth-Year Prefect Percy Weasley, at your service!"

Peter snorted and rolled his beady eyes inside his cage. The boy's self proclamation had awoken him and he could see clearly the shining badge denoting him as a Hogwarts Prefect, as well as the book list on top of the desk. He watched Percy leave and seconds later a loud shriek followed by hearty applause echoed around the house.

"The blood-traitor is going to get even snottier now," he thought and coiled around himself to lick his privates. With a glance at the calendar on the wall, Peter realized with a start that Potter's child should be going to Hogwarts this term. It brought forth hateful memories he'd rather forget, because he wanted revenge and didn't get it, he wanted power and failed to achieve it, and he wanted protection and it was taken from him.

His musings were interrupted when Percy and his younger brother Ronald entered the room, the first instructing the exact manner in which to care for a pet rat, while the latter whined about Scabbers being a boring, good-for-nothing lazy rat.

"Mother is giving me an owl for my deserved appointment, it's only correct that you should benefit by inheriting Scabbers."

"Bloody rat's worthless! I don't wanna..."

Peter began to grow nervous, if he wasn't taken care of he'd be cut-off from the magical world unless he could find another wizarding family to hide with. Worst of all, he might be released into the wild to fend for himself or the Weasleys might try to put him down!

"Ronald, be a good boy now. You're going to Hogwarts and you should do your best to rectify the horrible stigma our family name has been subjected to because of George and Fred!"

"What's that got to do with the rat?"

"If you care for him, it will show you are a responsible boy," Percy explained while Ronald scrunched his face, clearly trying to understand his older brother's reasoning.

Jolted back and forth when Ronald picked his cage without care, Peter grabbed the bars with his four paws and tried to steady himself, all the while listening to the little boy's grumbling and whining. He was taken to a small room plastered with bright orange everywhere. There were orange coloured bed covers, orange-clad Quidditch players in moving posters on the walls, and even an orange Chudley Cannons bedside alarm clock!

The boy looked down at him and mumbled "stupid rat" before tossing his cage to the floor, at which point he seemed to be thinking; at least he believed that was the case given Ronald was sitting still and looking at a point on the wall without moving. All the while, Peter began weighing his options now that his future hung in the balance. Whether he continued to live his non-existence with the Weasley blood-traitors depended entirely on the boy's decision, but then again he also had a decision to make.

"Do I continue to wait and serve my Master or do I strive to be free?" he wondered. He knew his own magical power was lacking but he had the Dark Mark to prove his allegiance to a greater, darker power few could claim to serve. However his Lord had been gone for so many years that Peter felt purposeless; without him his life seemed ... devoid of meaning, unless he forged a destiny for himself.

But Wormtail had always been a follower, the tiny weak rodent among impressive beasts, much like Peter had been the short, ungraceful little boy among confident purebloods. He even envied the half-breed Lupin for his better grades if nothing else! However now he found himself at a junction, at a point where he could decide his own future while waiting for his Dark Lord to return.

"C'mon Scabbers, let's get you out of this cage," said Ronald and slid the barred door open.

Peter saw the large hand coming for him and made a decision: he was going to follow his nature and commandeer his own freedom. Biting the boy's nearest finger and drawing blood, he jumped out and bit again, before climbing the bed, jumping onto the window sill and, with a loud squeak, took a leap into the void and down to the Weasley's backyard.

"That's going to hurt tomorrow," he complained and limped his way through tall grass and angry gnomes, ignoring the boy's yelling from a window on the second floor.

As he reached the safety of the woods, he concentrated and tried to turn back into wizard, remembering what it felt like and what motivated him to be a human. At first he feared his ten years living as a rat had impaired his human form, but soon he felt the world around him shift and shrink in size, his point of view rise to the skies and almost forgotten senses develop anew.

"I'm Peter Pettigrew!" he exclaimed and then fell on his butt, so unused to standing on two feet like a human.

He stood up again, lifted his nose in the air and sniffed, then ran downhill while fighting the urge to scratch his ears and lick his privates again. Remembering he was a human for the first time since Apparating to Ottery St Catchpole and begging a young red-head for bread or cheese from the ground, Peter looked down and patted his torn robes, finding his Master's wand.

"My Lord! I live to serve you!" he said out loud, reverently holding the blackened magical rod as if it could speak back to him. So much for his desires of freedom, he thought and twitched involuntarily, half expecting to be at the business end of the Cruciatus for his impertinence.

When neither verbal answer nor Unforgivable Curse came, he pocketed the wand and continued to run, turning back into his Animagus form when reaching a road. Peter had learned much from Lily Evans about Muggles, and he knew these simpletons used horseless carriages to travel long distances, as well as trains like the Hogwarts Express. "I wonder what blood-traitor gave the Muggles such knowledge," he thought while climbing on board a lorry whose driver had stepped out to relieve himself behind the bushes.

Soon the man came back and, moving several levers with hands and feet, made the contraption move down the road. The blaring music made it hard for Wormtail to sleep inside the cabin so he began to explore under the seats, finding some crumbs to feast on.

"Next stop, Liverpool," said the driver to no one in particular. The thought of him having a wizard passenger under his seat never ever crossed his mind.

* * *

A dark-haired child known to the world of magic as The-Boy-Who-Lived was pulling a window out of its hinges, looking for a way into an old abandoned factory building. He'd left the docks earlier that day after an odd kind of flying chicken had chased him to deliver an envelope addressed to someone he didn't know. Someone else would've just dismissed the event and thrown away the letter, but after doing impossible things and seeing invisible beings so often in his itinerant life, it only made sense that someone with similar abilities had found him. Someone who'd surely want to use him for his own benefit, he feared.

Therefore he'd decided to leave the Liverpool docks and head north, searching for a new place to spend the week within the old warehouses and manufacturing plants lining the river's bank.

The place was easy to leave in a rush and had enough room and visibility to spot people coming and going, and it being a broomstick factory, had endless wood for fire and heaps of dry twigs for bedding. The only drawback was the mice. Hundreds if not thousands of them roamed the warehouse day and night, feeding on the appetizing twigs.

Finishing his cold meal and tossing the drumstick bones away, the child hid his things and the letter under some wooden planks, picked his long dagger and foot knife, and left to hunt for goods and money. As always when he moved, first and most important thing to do was to observe and avoid stepping on anyone's toes, meaning he wouldn't want to steal in somebody else's turf.

An escapee at eight years old, the boy who was by now almost eleven always claimed to be fourteen, however unbelievable given his very small size for a boy that age, and only answered to his chosen name, not that which Children Services and his foster families named him. He didn't even knew his birthday date, but couldn't care less.

Whistling and walking up and down some slightly crowded streets, he noticed some crooks stalking an old man and then stepped up to overtake them, making sure they saw him looking back at them. He crossed the old man's path and, without so much as touching him, pulled the overstuffed wallet out, quickly doubling up and turning into the first narrow alley.

As he'd predicted, the crooks came in after him.

"One quarter's mine, 'n I'd be glad to share 'em monies again t'morrow, aye?" the boy said, throwing the wallet at the older criminals and waving a few twenty quid banknotes.

No sooner had the crooks looked down at the stuffed wallet, he ran out the other end and vanished from sight, stopping nearby to purchase some decent food and a magazine before returning to his current hideout.

To his surprise, the very next day another of those strange birds came by and dropped another letter over him, bearing the same name but a different address. He ignored it and hoped another fat pigeon would come to deliver mail the next morning as well, which of course did happen as predicted.

The brown bird came through the highest windows and dove straight towards him, even though he was actually hidden behind a large crate, bearing yet another envelope. It rested on his makeshift bed for more than half the day, but never one for patience, the black-haired boy huffed and decided to open the damn thing while stoking the fire and turning his meat over to cook evenly.

Although his reading was quite precarious to say the least, he'd managed to read most of it as he enjoyed his chicken wings. It was an acceptance letter to an school dealing with witchcraft and wizardry. It sounded like something to do with magic but he wasn't really sure, and he really wouldn't be able to go there even if he was this H. Potter guy. All he knew was that he needed to move away again soon.

The evening turned into night and he was reading quietly by fire, occasionally throwing some crumbs at the rats when one fat white rodent suddenly turned back to look at him more closely and opened its eyes wide, almost bursting out of its sockets. He was initially amused at the look of recognition the rat had on its face, but almost jumped out of his skin when the animal turned into a chubby blonde man right in front of him.

"Harry Potter!" the rat-man hissed and pointed a black stick at him, strange light coming from its tip.

His survival instinct kicked in and, with a swift kick to the side of the fat, short man's left knee he forced him to stumble and sliced his forearm with his dagger, making him drop the weapon with a scream of pain. Harry then stepped on it intending to break it in half, but the wood felt as rigid as solid steel. He picked it up and threw it among the many piles of broomsticks before using his smaller size to lunge for the man's throat with his knife.

"_Wait!_ Please don't kill me, please!"

"What the fuck are you 'n why'd you call me Harry?"

Peter forced himself to look at Potter's child and noticed the question was as legitimate as it could be. As was the threatening knife already cutting deep into his neck. Meeting the bane of his Dark Lord was the last thing he'd ever imagined himself doing, and yet here he was pleading for his life like a ... grovelling rat in front of James bloody Potter's son.

"Tell me, rat-face! You the one sendin' those bloody letters?"

"Letters? W-what letters?"

He felt the boy remove his weapon from his throat and watched him retreat, looking for something under an old wooden plank, from where he picked three parchment envelopes bearing the Hogwarts Crest which he threw them at him. The first read H. Potter, Under the Garston Docks, Liverpool while the other two read Abandoned Brownhill Broomworks. That explained the enormous amount of flying devices at least. "These are f-for Hogwarts School of Magic..."

Peter couldn't believe his bad luck. He'd followed the scent and trail of the local mice to find this heaven of free food, have some fun with some lady-mouse and then continue searching for a wizard family to settle with, in order to keep an eye and an ear out for his Master's return. The Dark Lord couldn't be dead, he refused to believe such impossibility!

And yet it was the very Harry Potter who held his life on the edge of a blade, disarming him in less than the blink of an eye. Could it be true? Could this baby have truly destroyed Lord Voldemort? No, the Dark Mark was still there, it was a faded image of what it once was, for sure, but it was still there.

"Is turnin' into a rat something you learn at this school?" the boy asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

Nodding and crawling back on his elbows, Peter let a shaky breath escape his lips and he wiped the blood from his neck, but the cut in his forearm continued to leak. His initial rage gone, he took a good look at the urchin standing in front of him holding a big black dagger. The boy was dirty and his clothes torn, yet his demeanour exuded confidence and danger, a capacity for violence that he could perhaps take advantage of.

"I'm what's called an Animagus. Wizards who can turn into an animal at will, but only one and not of our choosing either, Harry... Can I call you Harry?"

"So that's what H stands for, huh?"

"You... You didn't know your name?" Peter asked, increasingly puzzled by the situation.

"I _chose_ me a name when I's like five years old. Ever'one that knows me calls me Twitch thou'."

"All right then ... Twitch. Yes, your name's Harry Potter."

"Where d'you know me from?" asked the boy, who was now walking backwards towards the area he'd thrown the Dark Lord's wand away.

Peter had to provoke the child and make him forget about the black wand, make him focus on him long enough for him to grab it and kill Potter's heir. "I knew your parents. They were the filthiest of wizards, opposing my Lord and his glory... I saw them die by my Lord's wand in your own home!"

That made Harry pause, but he continued to search for the wand and found it buried under a pile of broken brooms. The boy dared handle it with his unworthy fingers, but what drained Peter's blood from his face was the look in his eyes.

"I've felt this ... magic thing flowin' through me, 'n I can feel it here too. You say this bloke you call Lord used a stick to kill me parents, huh?"

Harry cast a vengeful scowl on Peter, took the wand by its ends with both hands and, with a spark of green fire dancing in his eyes, forced it down his bent knee, shattering the Dark Lord's instrument of magic in two useless pieces held together by the thinnest of threads.

"_No!_ You'll pay for this Potter! I'm going to--"

Whatever threats he was about to carry forth were cut by the sound of metal drawn from a belt and pressed against his nether regions, which were well within reach of the boy's arms. He gulped and squealed, turning into a white rat in the air and hoping to escape into the dark, unreachable corners of the warehouse.

As he became the rat, however, Harry managed to swing and kick him against the wall, where he landed heavily and slid down to the floor in a heap. "Shite, did I kill it?"

Picking the rat up by the tail, he shook it a while and then flicked its face. He noticed it breathe and Harry began to look for a place to keep the rat-man and ask further questions. "A magic school and people who use sticks as weapons. Can this week get any weirder?"

He found an old and sturdy tool box, put the rat inside and used some loose copper cables to wrap it thoroughly, and then spread the rags he used as a makeshift bed over a dry wooden pallet. Leaning back on his elbows he let his head fall back and sighed, pondering the words coming out of the rat's mouth. "I knew your parents. I saw them die by my Lord's wand," he'd said, and what's more he'd apparently told him his real name: Harry Potter.

Digging for a loaf of bread inside an old bag, Harry stuffed some cold meat inside, munched on it and then turned sideways. "My parents, huh? Screw 'em, they don't mean shite to me," he mumbled and bit another mouthful of his funny fat pigeon sandwich.

* * *

The space Wormtail rested in was cold and dark, barely a sliver of light came through and only when the pendulum motion reached its peak. He was already dizzy would be getting sick very soon. He tried to remember how many days he'd been kept inside, not daring to transform back into a wizard lest someone sees him and reports him to the Ministry, and came up with three or four days.

He'd listened to the sounds of railway travel, then some moving around on a Muggle vehicle of sorts and now was being jolted side to side as if running. "Yes, whoever is carrying me is now running," he concluded. Wormtail heard shouting and he felt his prison hit the ground, and a woman approached telling everyone to step aside and turn someone's head to the side.

"He's just a child, has anyone seen his parents?" the female voice asked, before commanding somebody to grab the boy's head firmly. "Hold him tight... Bite this down, dear. That's it, you'll be fine in a minute."

Whatever was happening, probably had something to do with Potter's child. Was he injured? Did one of the Dark Lord's faithful find him? If that was the case, no one would be giving him help, so Wormtail reluctantly discarded that cheerful idea.

A few minutes later the woman began questioning Harry and Wormtail could tell the boy was about to slice someone's throat.

"Geroff me! Lemme go, woman!"

"Wait, please don't run away!"

Wormtail banged around the cold metallic walls of his confinement and he could tell they were running, a loud wailing and barking sounds told him they were still in a large Muggle town, and Harry's frantic breathing indicated he was still injured. "Good, soon I'll kill him with his own blade," the rat thought and planned. Murdering the boy in his sleep would be easy.

The boy holding the cage and an old duffel bag on the shoulder continued to run and turn around corners and small alleys, knowing whatever magic he had would throw his pursuers out of his trail. Harry had just suffered another of the sudden attacks that gave him the name Twitch, and he needed a place to rest or else he'd pass out on the streets on London.

A shadowed alley was good enough, he decided and dropped heavily against a garbage container, spreading his legs and resting his head on his hands. "Bloody letter 'n freakin' rat-man with his magic shite," he complained. The reason he'd decided to come to London was to find a way to confirm this whole Hogwarts thing, but everywhere he asked people either ignored him or told him to sod off. He needed the rat-man's help.

"Listen up, rat. I'm lettin' you outta there, you'd better turn into a man or else I'll cut your rat guts open, you hear me?"

Always quick to act under mortal threat, Wormtail squeaked loudly hoping to convey his agreement and waited for the kid to open his prison. A few scraping sounds later and the latches came open to reveal the sharp point of Harry's dagger poking his tender chest.

Turning back into wizard as slowly as possible, Peter raised his arms over his head and looked down at the pale, sweaty boy threatening him. "I'm not going anywhere Twitch..." he said.

"Good rat. What's your name, by the way?"

"P-Peter, Peter Pettigrew."

"Hiya Peter... Behave 'n I won't kill you. All I wanna know is how to get to this school," Harry said and waved the Hogwarts envelope.

"You have to reply to them by owl and then take the Hogwarts Express in London."

"Owl? I dunno what that is but I see no freakin' address here..."

"Well, how did you receive those letters if not by owl?"

"Huh, must be those funny birds then... Yeah, I caught me three o' them big pigeons! Best meal I've had in weeks!"

"Y-you killed the owls?!"

"Er... You gotta kill 'em first, you know. First you snap the neck, then pluck the feathers and burn the skin quickly to get rid o' the stubs. Only _then_ you gut it, savin' the liver, heart 'n stuff for soup," explained Harry as if giving cooking lessons to an audience. "And after you cut the breast and legs, you--"

"All right, all right! I get it!" Peter interrupted and looked around the alley again. He still couldn't believe this was _the_ Harry Potter, living on the run as a filthy Muggle surrounded by ... filth and disease, probably robbing and fighting other Muggles to survive.

"You wanna know why I live like this..." Harry stated while massaging his feet, his black dagger still firmly held in the other hand.

Peter nodded dumbly while his lips twitched at the sight of so much food leaking out of a trash can. He noticed several rats feasting on it and his mouth watered, but he turned to hear Harry's explanation instead.

"All I know is that when Children's Services got me they couldn't find me records, like I'd never been born. So they put me in a couple o' foster homes, but I hated it so I ran away three years ago."

Waiting for more, Peter sat on the floor and tilted his head. "And?"

"And that's all, it's like they forgot I was ever there 'cause nobody came looking," Harry answered and shrugged. "It's like magic, you know? When people try 'n chase me, they stop after a while and just ... turn around as if they've got somewhere else to be."

Harry reached inside his bag for the broken wooden stick the rat-man named Peter had threatened him with last week and plucked a ragged red feather from the inside. The feather danced to an invisible wind and seemed to put itself together when he held it firmly in his fingers, straightening up and filling with redder, fuller barbs and shining as if fire came from inside it.

Once the feather reassembled itself, he looked it over and sharpened the thick point with his knife. Looking for something to dip it in and finding nothing, he sliced his thumb and used his own blood to test his self-made quill on the backside of the invitation letter.

'HARY POTTER', he wrote in a very shaky script, more suitable for a seven year old learning to write than a boy old enough to enter Hogwarts. He spoke the name out loud a couple of times and didn't really like it, preferring the name he'd chosen years ago but, if he was to go to school and he really was this Potter bloke, he'd better get used to it.

"You saw me parents get killed, ain't it right? Did they have any money?"

Peter paled, momentarily believing his life had come to an end, but when his throat was still safe and Harry asked about money instead of exacting revenge upon him, he realized this boy in front of him was almost a Muggle. An animal that follows its every instinct regardless of tradition, honour or decency; in a sad way, Harry the Muggle had more freedom than Peter the Wizard would ever have in his life.

"Well, Twitch, I believe a visit to Diagon Alley is order." Unfortunately he couldn't be there as a wizard, but could he tell the boy that he was presumed dead and that he'd framed Harry's Godfather for his own betrayal? Helping Harry would be an opportunity to stay in touch with the magical world and, sooner or later, kill the brat for what he did to the Dark Lord, but was it worth the risk?

"You're comin' with me," Harry commanded, pointing his blade at the chubby wizard.

Realizing he had little choice in the matter, he understood that sooner or later it was _his_ death that would come at the hands of an eleven year old. He could run and be stabbed in the back. He could try to escape as Wormtail and be gutted alive. None of those outcomes pleased Peter in the least, and all he wanted right now was to stay in the world of the living. "Sure, but I'm supposed to be ... dead in the magical world."

Harry thought about that and concluded the rat-man was lying. He couldn't show his face because he was a murderer. Probably murdered his parents and blamed that Lord Thingy of his to save his own hide. "What if there's a reward for this bloke?" he wondered. He could use him to get to this diagonal place and find out if his birth parents left him any money, and then turn the rat in too!

"You'll write how to get there, 'n come with me as a rat. Got it?" asked Harry as he handed Peter the phoenix quill and a Hogwarts envelope.

An hour later Harry strolled down Charing Cross Road and searched for a pub called The Leaky Cauldron while carrying an old toolbox and a duffel bag over his shoulder. He paused to pull a cap even lower on his head and, shrugging, entered the dingy place. Lots of strangely dressed people were chatting, walking and eating inside, and the instructions Peter had written told him to go to the back and wait until this portal opened.

Surely enough, a family of three came in, the adult man tapped the wall with his magical stick and, lo and behold, a portal opened. "Shitty security," mumbled Harry as he followed the family inside, without anyone asking his purpose or looking at him at all.

"Walk towards the bank and turn into the alley," he read from the envelope. Peter had told him he'd be safer by going to a wizard handler instead of walking into the Ministry for Magic and declaring he was Harry Potter. For some reason, many people worshipped the ground he stepped on for surviving that Lord Thingy that Peter called Master.

Cheatham and Roben was the office he had to look for, if it was still there. The alley was dark and smelled of rotten food, nothing new for Harry but certainly not a place he'd feel safe. He shook the toolbox containing Peter, hoping to knock the wizard out in retaliation for directing him into this place.

Next to a boarded-up house a narrow red door had an iron cast plate with the names he was looking for. Wasting no time, he checked his surroundings and pushed the door open, closing it softly behind. Whatever he was expecting, this wasn't it.

The inside was an impossibly large waiting room with arched windows facing the alley, windows that weren't visible from the outside, comfy deep-red sofas around a sparkling coffee table and expensive-looking crystal lamps hanging from the ceiling. To his right, a carved wooden desk shielded an old woman wearing a pitch black hat and pitch black clothes.

"May I help you?" asked the old lady, who grimaced and sniffed.

"Er... Yeah, there's this bloke I met 'n he's told me I can find answers here?"

Sighing and bending forward while leaning on her long-fingered hands, the old woman asked again. "Would you elaborate on the subject of your questions, then perhaps I could be of assistance?"

"Friendly chick, huh?" Harry whispered under his breath, and then in a louder voice answered the lady. "Name's Harry Potter, I wanna go to Hogwarts but I dunno how to get there 'n I need to know if my parents got any monies left for me. That good enough for you?"

The old lady jumped on her seat, and two heavy-set doors were wrenched open at the same time on the opposite wall, from where two men stepped out the moment the name Harry Potter echoed through the room. The one to the left was a tall and fat bald man, probably seventy years old wearing striped clothes and a wooden cane, while the one to the right was a skinny small fellow, almost as tall as Harry was, wearing some sort of yellow bathing robe and even older than the first man.

"Mr Potter, we are Hadrian Cheatham..."

"...and Hadrian Roben, at your service!"

Harry lifted an eyebrow and looked at the unlikely pair up and down. "There somewhere we'd be talkin' to sort out my problems?"

"If you are who you say you are, Mr Potter..."

"...we would be delighted to offer you our most..."

"...discrete and opportune help."

"What d'you need for proof? I've got me these letters, 'n there's this bloke who says I'm Potter."

The men looked at each other and then huddled together, discussing something in hushed voices while Harry inspected the room, noticing that the lady behind the desk was still staring at him. He remembered his cap and removed it, raking his long hair up and back.

"Merlin's whiskers, it's him!" shouted the woman.

Cheatham and Roben turned to face Harry and they turned a rather predatory smile at him. "All we need at this point is a sample of your blood. Hadrian will procure the necessary book and be back in a few minutes, while you explain to me the circumstances of your life, Mr Potter."

The smaller Hadrian grabbed a matching yellow hat from a hook in the wall and ran out the door, while the bigger Hadrian motioned for Harry to follow. He entered a very fancy office filled with old books and gold everywhere. There were gold trimmings on the furniture, gold candlesticks, a gold paperweight and even the man's quill had a gold quill-holder! It was a robber's paradise.

Wasting no time, the big man fired away. "Where have you been all these years, Mr Potter? And for that matter, _what_ happened to you?"

"I dunno... All I know's that me name wasn't Potter 'til last week, when owls came by with letters." He didn't want to burn his chance at receiving further help from Peter by ratting him out.

Harry noticed the man hesitated and presented a calculating face, looking him all over. First he looked straight at his forehead and then seemed to scowl at his clothes, until finally coming to some kind of decision. "We shall wait for Hadrian."

A few minutes later, Roben came back panting and clutching a book five times the size of a phone directory to his chest, and then placed it on top of Cheatham's desk. "They asked thirty-three Galleons for it! Bandits they are, I tell you."

The shorter Hadrian flicked through the book's pages and came to an elaborate drawing of a tree, before moving to take Harry's right hand. He wasn't prepared for his quick reaction, though. As the old man moved forward to grab him, Harry pulled his blade from his belt with his left hand and pushed Roben to the floor, making contact with his throat.

"Behave yourself, child! It's only a procedural step to be certain you are who you claim to be," Roben said, ignoring the dagger cutting his skin.

Apparently noticing Harry's perplexed expression at the lack of fear in his partner's face, Cheatham sought to explain. "When one handles Ministry and banking affairs for a broad range of gents as long as we have, one has seen and heard it all. A simple dagger is no threat to Hadrian or me, young man."

Stepping back, Harry was instructed to use his already convenient blade and drop some of his blood on the open page. he did as instructed and slashed his palm, closing his hand in a fist to let the drops fall. As the stream of blood slowed, the wizards told him it was enough and they crowded over the book, watching as the pool of Potter blood hunted for a specific name among the many leaves.

The red droplets circled Harry Potter's name and then jumped up at James Potter and Lily Evans, spreading up and around the family tree until some of it stopped, the rest climbed up to minuscule branches deep into the top of the drawing, and some of the blood leaked over the edge of the page.

"Hadrian quick, turn the pages!"

Cheatham complied and followed the blood drop, opening the page it slipped into and writing down the names as they were highlighted. The process continued for a while and the Hadrians followed Harry's blood into another half a dozen pages, until the droplets finally stopped and disappeared into the old book.

After a minute of silence, the adult wizards looked at each each other and Roben cleared his throat. "Ahem... Mr Potter, welcome back to the wizarding world," both men said and shook hands with Harry.


	2. Chapter 2: Bring Forth thy Magic

Chapter 2: Bring Forth thy Magic

**Chapter 2: Bring Forth thy Magic**

Hadrian Cheatham and Hadrian Roben were wizard gentlemen, refined and well bred, and also avid pleasure seekers who garnered satisfaction in certain forms of entertainment some would consider either horrific or simply obnoxious, depending on the person's point of view. They had met at Hogwarts when sorted within the same House of Ravenclaw, sharing a great many things beyond their given name and a dormitory room for seven years.

Both wizards born as the ninth month comes, they were among the eldest of their generation, graduating from Hogwarts in seventy-nine. Eighteen hundred and seventy-nine, that is. A shared desire for riches and comfort meant they had to study hard to achieve a highly remunerated Mastery of the Magical Arts, which in turn spurred competition among the already study-oriented Ravenclaws and made them fight for the highest grades and Hogwarts positions. Neither made Head Boy, however, due to what they termed unfair advantages given to a Hufflepuff.

Their families weren't millennial but did share a presence in the latest four centuries of magical history at least, and they spent their youth reaping the benefits of an enlightened magical society that understood its role as guides for the lesser beings known as Muggles. By slowly and subtly nudging the leadership of Muggle Britannia in the right direction for centuries, wizards and witches of the Isles had enjoyed a degree of freedom and safety seldom reached after the Statues of Secrecy were first enacted.

The charm unravelled and broke, however, when proponents of a more active and visible leadership by wizards over Muggles began taking matters on their own hands, bypassing local Ministries and Councils, which eventually led to an strengthening of restrictions placed over the magical population to avoid such blatant disclosure of the existence of magic, which in turn led to even greater discontent and distrust against Muggleborns and Half-bloods.

Being denied the sport of Muggle Hunting, although Hadrian and Hadrian always kept the lower humans they hunted alive and Obliviated them after their fun, was reason enough to start associating with fellow witches and wizards who, like them, disliked the Ministry for Magic and its policies.

That's when Cheatham and Roben finally discovered their true calling: making money by handling all manner of requests by wizards who wished for a return to the better days.

So after decades managing shady gold transactions, pushing forward biased resolutions while bypassing Ministry hurdles, helping hide assets and people from both sides of different conflicts and, although both wizards shivered at the thought and vowed on their magic never to speak of the incident again, procuring information for You-Know-Who himself, who spared their lives only because of their usefulness, right through their narrow red door in walked The-Boy-Who-Lived.

"So what now?" the scrawny boy asked.

"Well Mr Potter. First and foremost, it comes to my attention that you seem to suffer from a ... language impairment typical of the lower echelons of society. And your attire is also an indication that you have spent a long time living among Muggles, am I correct?"

Harry tilted his head to the left. "Fuck off! I'll talk what way I wanna talk, 'n I dunno what you mean 'bout nurgles?"

The shorter Hadrian sighed and, with experience gleamed from decades of handling unsavoury characters, took over the interview. "What he means is Muggles. The inferior humans that have no magic, and the reason we are so secretive about our world."

"Huh... If we're inferior, than how come you're the ones hidin'?"

"No, no, Mr Potter, you misunderstand me. You are most decidedly _not_ a Muggle. And as to your conclusion, well, I must concede that perhaps their having a numerical advantage over us does force wizards into hiding, as you say."

Roben had no resentment against the boy in front of him, for his destruction of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did bring an end to a conflict that was doing more harm than good to Magical Britain, although it slowed down their office work and, subsequently, their revenue. On the other hand, Cheatham had a bone to pick against the Potter family and would most certainly pilfer as much gold from the uneducated whelp in front of him as he could.

The book over which Harry had dropped his blood suddenly popped away, vanishing into thin air and he wondered when he might be able to do that himself, before thinking about what Peter had told him. "This bloke I met said I've killed a Lord Dunno-What. That true?"

"That is correct, Mr Potter. You-Know-Who was defeated by you, ten years ago."

"I dunno who..."

"He means the Dark Lord," Roben said in a very low hush.

Harry put a blank face, then shrugged. "So, 'bout any money I've got 'n this Hogwarts stuff. Can you help me out or what?"

Tall and fat Cheatham smiled and rubbed his hands, "Of course we can, for a ... reasonable fee."

"A tenth of what my family left me in bearer instruments 'n currency, minus what I'll need for payin' school 'n other obligations. Your job'll be to tell me who I am, find out who's supposed to care for me but never did, 'n make sure nobody knows 'bout me while I lay low."

Whatever the Hadrians were expecting from the ignorant whelp, it wasn't such a clear mandate and a detailed payment offer that, while unknown in nominal value, knowing the amount of family ties to extinct families from before the 1666 Spattergroit Plague of which the only surviving Potter was a beneficiary, would be quite substantial. However they weren't in the business of handling borderline and sometimes quite illegal requests for no reason.

"One third plus our hourly fee, Mr Potter," rebated Cheatham.

Standing up, Harry picked his toolbox and bag, and turned to leave. "Thanks for your time."

"Twenty-five percent!"

"Ta ta!" said Harry and extended an arm to the door handle.

"Twenty!"

"I'll tell the bloke who said you'd be able to help, just how much you're chargin' people nowadays..."

"Fifteen and we'll cut our hourly fees in half!"

"Deal. But you'll find me a teacher for this magic shite 'n find a way to show me around without anyone knowin'. Free o' charge!" he rebated, looking over his shoulder while the old woman behind the desk looked back and forth between the boy and her bosses.

Harry dropped his gear by the door and sat on the comfortable sofa, crossing his leg over his knee and asking for something to drink before retelling the brief history of his life. The old lady then shrieked "_Waxball!_" and a loud popping sound like that of a gunshot sounded, sending the boy to the ground in a defensive posture.

"Nothing to worry about, it's merely a house-elf," Roben explained in a patronizing voice.

The round and obese-looking greenish creature waddled towards the wizards and bowed very low, his large belly touching the floor before his pointy nose. Harry recovered and sat back on the sofa, looking at the thing and wondering how much he had to learn about this new world.

"Water, Mr Potter?"

Harry looked up at Roben as if he were offering manure, "Make it a cold ale. It's the middle o' the soddin' summer, innit?"

"Dear Merlin, this child is a savage!" exclaimed Cheatham, who settled back on a leather couch. Roben, however, simply smirked and whispered something to the fat thing waiting in the middle of the room. The house-elf disappeared and returned seconds later with a pint of butterbeer and two glasses of cognac.

Sipping the cold drink and approving of this new flavour, Harry began with his earliest memory, the yellow room. The yellow room was cold and bright, and beeping sounds mixed with a steady dripping had awoken him. He didn't really know much at that time except for yes and no, the names of a few colours, what cold and hot meant, simple things like that.

He felt sore all over in that yellow room, his head was bandaged and he had tubes running into his arm, something both Hadrians found to be barbaric. Harry then explained that he was found on the doorstep of a hospital, bleeding to death, and that his feet didn't match any birth registration anywhere in England so he was later placed in an orphanage, waiting for adoption. Sighing, Harry had to explain that it's usual practice to have a stamp of a baby's foot for identification. Neither Hadrian understood why, though.

Because he had no name, Harry had been named by the paediatrician who first took care of him as John Green. He learned to _hate_ that name later on, as his first adoptive family reacted badly to things that usually happened around him. Floating toys and exploding light bulbs were enough to bring forth a man's most primal defence against the unknown: violence.

Thankfully he didn't last long with those people, because after the monthly Children's Services visitors confirmed his mistreatment the family was stripped of his guardianship. He was placed in another orphanage and soon adopted by another family, where he became the youngest of four. The small, scrawny child soon became target practice for his older brothers.

By this time Cheatham had narrowed his eyes and had the same calculating face he'd sported earlier in the day, while Roben simply shook his head, voicing his belief that Muggles were animals that had been left unchecked for too long.

Again Harry was taken away when he was six or seven years old, because he'd somehow knocked the older boys out when they were punching him, and the foster parents decided young John Green was incompatible with their way of life.

A new foster family soon took him in, but his refusal to answer to the name of John and his general rebelliousness coupled with further episodes of unexplainable events, as well as his constant talk of invisible beasts, garden creatures and crawling pests only Harry could see, had frightened the very religious family to the degree that they would drop him a plate of food by his bedroom door and run away screaming bloody murder.

"I decided it was enough o' that shite, so I ran away 'n been travellin' all over the place 'til last week," Harry said, finishing his tale.

"Madam Thicknesse, would you please fetch Mr Binns at the Historians Guild and bring him here? Tell him a ... surprise awaits him," Roben asked the old lady by the desk, who stood up to a shelf, touched a small paperweight in the shape of a miniature stack of books and vanished into thin air.

"I'm _so_ gonna love magic," whispered Harry.

"Hadrian, I will ask Oxley Onionsupple to draft an agreement and make it binding. We are dealing with greater issues than a simple inheritance here."

"I agree. We should also ask for Mr Flobberhirm and, with your permission Mr Potter, resolve your status within our community. You are underage, meaning you need a guardian--"

"Fuck no! I'm gonna make me own decisions, deal was--"

"Please Mr Potter, you misunderstand me. You _need_ a guardian, however he or she does not necessarily have to be, shall we say, breathing regularly?"

Harry paused to think. "D'you mean a stiff?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A corpse, some dead bloke you'll tie to me, so me decisions are me own, but with this dead guy's signature?" Harry tried to clarify.

Smiling broadly, Roben nodded affirmatively and walked back to his office, leaving Harry alone to witness yet another weirdness. Cheatham was now kneeling in front of the fireplace with his _entire head_ stuck into the flames! He shook his own head, long black hair flailing back and forth.

To Harry's astonishment, a second after Cheatham finally plucked his face from the flames, a man stepped out of it! He was definitely going to love magic!

"As I understand, you require total secrecy and have agreed to a monetary remuneration for several specified services from Cheatham & Roben," said the oddly dressed man who immediately sat in front of him, without so much as a greeting.

Barely waiting for Harry to say yes, the man pulled a stick similar to the one Peter the rat-man had on him and, with a wave, made a tall stack of yellow paper appear on the coffee table. This was going to be a _very_ long day.

* * *

The following morning, deep into the Scottish Highlands, a small bearded creature wearing lederhosen and a leather hat rode a smoky grey giant salamander up the hill. It stopped in front of an ancient iron gate flanked by stone boars, and declared himself. "Dwarf Delivery for 'Eadmaster Albus Dumbledore!"

The gates swung open and the dwarf kicked the salamander forward, speeding up to the double gates where a hunched, bald, grumpy looking man holding a dripping mop waited. The man allowed the dwarf inside and escorted it around the castle towards a statue of a gargoyle.

"I've got a package for Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore!" yelled the small being, who jumped back as the gargoyle moved to reveal a moving staircase.

The addressee, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sat behind his broad desk, contemplating the four feet tall pile of parchment in front of him, waiting for his signature. He sighed and plucked another lemon drop from his fish bowl while allowing the dwarf to enter.

Albus Dumbledore had been anxious and pensive for days, hoping against hope that the Enchanted Quill had written an Invitation Letter to one eleven year old boy in particular, one little boy he'd lost many years ago, because of his own carelessness. Harry Potter _had_ to be alive somewhere, for Albus refused to believe Magic would let Darkness roam the Earth unfettered.

The grumpy creature walked into the headmaster's office, straightened his leather pants and cleared his throat. "He who was once thought lost,  
This invitation will gladly accept.  
Rat and pigeon his hideout found,  
For his past he came back to hound."

"That's the song, here's the delivery. Goodbye!" yelled the dwarf after dropping a sealed parchment and a sack of gold on the table and extending a tiny hand, palm side up. When no tip came, it huffed, turned around and closed the door behind him.

Snickering and shaking his head, Albus picked the thick roll of parchment and frowned, noticing the crest of Cheatham & Roben on the coal black wax seal. "Who could be using the Hadrians' disreputable services for such simple matters as a Hogwarts-- _Sweet mother of Merlin!_"

Reading the page again, Albus sighed and slumped against his chair, letting the parchment fall all over his beard. If this was real, should he be happy that Harry Potter had replied and was alive, or should he be worried the boy had fallen prey to such venomous pair of dark wizards? Or was this some convoluted plot to actually extract information from him about Harry, although he had none at all?

One month he would have to wait. One month and he'd have closure, closure on a mistake that weighed him greatly ever since that Christmas day in 1981. He knew he shouldn't have visited, but Albus pained for leaving Harry in the uncaring hands of these worst sort of Muggles, as Minerva had said. "How right she was," he whispered and continued to remember.

Had he not visited, that retched family would have at least kept the boy with them. Albus had cast a simple compulsion spell on the letter he left on top of little Harry, small enough that the Ministry wouldn't detect it, the purpose of which was to make the Dursleys keep the boy living with them. Unfortunately he tied spell to what he believed would be an everlasting power, that of love for family, failing to consider how much hate and resentment the compulsion to house Harry against Vernon and Petunia's desires would cause.

The moment the old wizard had knocked on the Dursleys door, their hatred increased yet another notch. He was unceremoniously refused entry and told, in no uncertain terms, that they wanted no freaks visiting ever again, or else they would drop the boy in the nearest trash bin. Albus didn't dare casting another compulsion and risk revealing his presence in Little Whinging to other wizards and witches who might lead Death Eaters to Harry, and left.

Four years later, when the little boy was old enough to be spending time outside the house, or at the very least should have been seen going to school, his watcher Arabella Figg reported never seeing little Harry. Ever.

Taking a risk, Albus had then visited again expecting to find a five year old Harry living in number four Privet Drive, only to be refused entry and be categorically told that nobody with that name had ever lived there. Justifying his actions as defence of a threatened wizard, he pushed his way inside and Legillimenced the annoying Muggle.

"How could you!" exclaimed Albus as he left the turbulent mind of a fearful and insecure man, filled with mundane desires and self hatred. "By all that is sacred, how could you!"

The powerful wizard had witnessed the obese Muggle shaking and hurting a defenceless year and a half baby to make him stop crying, pure hatred in his soul. And then he felt the panic rising on Vernon's mind, as he realized the boy was almost dead. The Muggle had hauled the bloodied bundle into his vehicle, dropping him on the door of a nearby hospital in the middle of the night, and driven away.

Albus couldn't understand how a human being could ever achieve such cruelty, and yet he was painfully reminded of other humans, wizards actually, who revelled in the pain and subjugation of others: Pureblood Fanatics, Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort.

Searching the hospital in Greater Whinging was futile. He couldn't find any information about a maimed baby found at the witch's hour in the middle of Winter four years before then. Muggles had too feeble memories. Albus had been desperate and had nowhere to turn. How could he face his colleagues and tell them he had caused Harry Potter's disappearance? What would the magical world's reaction be to such news? No, he couldn't risk it, he would have to bear that burden in secret and continue searching for 'the one with the power he knows not' by himself.

Returning to the present, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, unrolled the signed reply by one Harry J Potter and paused over his guardian's name. "How can this be? Last I remember, Herman had been engaged in a fool's errant chasing the Manticore of Mount Parnassos thirty years ago. Alas, perhaps he's surprised us all and returned alive!"

Sighing, he added the document to his growing parchment pile, and then popped another lemon drop in his mouth. It tasted bitter, much like his current mood.

* * *

Harry had a full month to get up to speed on his magic, the Hadrians had stashed him in a seven bedroom, four bathroom flat, something so luxurious he'd never seen anything like it in his whole life. Dark wooden panelling, gold fittings everywhere, lamps that sprung to life by themselves, paintings that _moved and talked_ to you! Of course, after the events of the previous day, Harry shouldn't have been impressed, but there he was admiring the etched dragons swirling all over the vaulted ceiling while having breakfast prepared by Waxball the house-elf and waiting for them to collect him.

Onionsupple had been very professional yesterday, actually explaining each and every detail of the twelve magically binding contracts he'd finally signed with Cheatham & Roben, even if they were contrary to the Hadrians' interests. Cheatham had become very angry when Harry refused to continue and threatened to leave if the clause on family magic disclosure wasn't removed; Harry wanted what was his for himself and nobody else.

Settling back on the comfortable chair, Harry chuckled at the looks he'd received when he pulled a fiery-red quill from his bag and cut his palm again, dipping it in his blood and signing the first contract they finished negotiating. He then learned that it was a phoenix feather, and when he let the old lady Thicknesse, the Ministry records keeper Flobberhirm, Onionsupple the barrister, Binns the historian and the Hadrians know he'd pulled it from the wand belonging to the wizard that had killed his parents, all six adults shuddered and almost fell off their seats.

After that, even Cheatham had become more attentive and receptive to his demands.

On the other hand, Harry didn't know what to think of Binns. He was a middle-aged wizard wearing a long moustache and unevenly cropped hair sticking on all directions, that kept leering at Harry as if he was ready to pounce and rape him. His information about the magical world and the Potter family, however, was _very_ interesting and backed by several books, documents and blood tests they poured over until after lunch.

"I'm gonna have to feed on somebody's effin' blood at this rate," he mumbled and hissed at the cuts in his left hand. Harry had refused to let anyone wave his or her magic stick at him, even after they swore it was to heal his wounds.

With the family history and the parchment to prove it, Binns and Flobberhirm managed to pull all required strings, well oiled after almost a century of Cheatham's and Roben's influence in the Ministry, to quietly and quickly update Harry's status as a magical citizen of Britain, and gain access to his inheritance and political rights as Head of Family, although under responsible adult guardianship.

Harry shuddered at the memory of the ... thing ... that Roben had brought from his office to be his guardian. "What in the name o' the Queen's tits is that?!" he'd yelled and jumped on the couch, trying to get away.

"This, Mr Potter, is what you so vehemently requested. Your ticket to independence," explained Roben as if telling a five year old what a spoon is for. "You see, as Mr Binns explained, words are powerful in our world. Magic _can and will_ turn against you if you fail to heed it, or deliberately bend or break an oath."

"What's that gotta do with the freaky bugger, then?"

"Savage, I tell you," mumbled Cheatham.

"This Homunculus is, for most magical purposes, a wizard. Then again as you so colourfully pointed out, it isn't," Roben said and grabbed one of the little form's arms, waving at Harry with it. "Herman Joseph Plotslip shall be placed back under a stasis charm after he signs your guardianship, but will be available to sign anything you request of him at a later date."

"HJ Plotslip? That freaky thing's gonna share me full initials?!"

"Coincidences happen, dear," said Binns. "Or maybe not..."

"The important issue, Mr Potter, is that as was required by you, his magical signature alone isn't enough, only both of yours are binding and valid for magical documents until you become of age, including banking with your currently inaccessible vaults. And the magic from the easily controllable Homunculus will be indistinguishable from that of a real wizard guardian," added Flobberhirm.

A knock on the door distracted Harry from his memories of yesterday and he walked to open the door. There stood the Hadrians, the taller one scowled at him while the shorter beamed a smile, inviting him to join them in the quest for "that most magical of items, Mr Potter. Your wand!"

"Hold it, I've gotta take a rat out first," he said and unlocked the toolbox where Peter was still kept. "Behave, rat-face. We're goin' out."

Wormtail squeaked a pitiful squeak, and climbed to Harry's shoulder.

The group of two adults plus one child, and a rat, climbed downstairs and entered the shady, smelly and generally unsavoury Knockturn Alley, headed towards an even darker area. Harry had been fitted with a large cloak to conceal his face, which also sported a notice-me-not charm, to keep him as invisible as possible.

Soon they reached a boarded-up shop, stood to the side and Cheatham tapped a small symbol with the tip of his wand. A slit appeared and two beady eyes looked from it quickly before disappearing, and the sealed door cracked open.

"In we go," said Roben and took a step inside, with Harry behind him and finally Cheatham.

"Tonguepuller! We come for a wand."

From behind bars a creature looked up at the wizards, and then straight at Harry, who gulped at the scarred face of an almost bald thing with long ears, spindly fingers and the most repulsive brownish pointy teeth. "For the infant?" the thing asked.

"Yes. Sir, please allow the goblin to examine your left hand," Roben asked, taking a side glance at the other Hadrian.

Harry eyed the creature behind the bars wearily and, while fingering the handle of his dagger, offered his left hand. The goblin then took a bejewelled item and ran it through Harry's wounded palm, which began to emit puffs of smoke.

"What trickery is this?" asked Tonguepuller, eyeing Harry carefully.

"Show him the feather, sir." They'd agreed not to say Harry's name in public.

"What, this?" he asked, pulling the quill he'd made with his free hand.

"Wand core!" the goblin exclaimed, and tried to reach for the phoenix feather like a crazed monkey reaching for a banana. However Harry was much quicker and, pulling his left hand from the goblin's grip, drew his dagger, swung and sliced.

"Mine to keep, bitch..." growled Harry, pressing the blade against the extended arm belonging to the goblin. "Try again 'n it won't be your arm I'll cut, but your throat!"

Making some rather unpleasant noises and baring its teeth, the goblin wrestled his arm back and walked to the side, looking for something. "Keep your peace, Master Wizard. A wielder of great power must wield a great wand, Tonguepuller shall have one here, or rob a worthy grave for one."

Harry looked at the Hadrians asking for an explanation, but none came. Wormtail, meanwhile, was feeling restless. He knew of rumours about scavengers hunting for wands inside dead wizards' graves, but he'd always thought it was nonsense, yet here he was in front of a goblin grave-robber who provided wands to those who wished to remain anonymous at all costs.

"Why didn't I know of this place?" Peter wondered. He could've gotten a wand of his own after losing his in the explosion of Potter's hovel, and then after the brat had disarmed him, he would've killed him with it! "Oh well, hindsight and all that..." In fact, because he was the Potter's Secret Keeper, he could always return there to search for his wand some time, perhaps after choking Harry to death in his sleep. "Yes, that's a good plan."

"Wake up, rat! You've been starin' at me, 'n I don't like it."

Squeak!

"Three wands, of which only one shall do. First, Anacletus Moody, 1755, Head Auror of the Realm, Hero of the Battle of the Rhein. Swish and flick, please, Master Wizard."

Harry reached for the handle and felt a ... liquid sensation snaking up his hand and forearm. He then did as told and waved his wand, flicking it at Tonguepuller the goblin. That motion signalled Tonguepuller's last breath, unfortunately for him.

A loud crack and a splattering sound later, the goblin's head was nowhere to be seen, and a nauseated Harry stood pointing a wand at the now goblin-less space behind the bars. "Fuck! Is it really dead?"

"_Savage!_ Give that here, child!" yelled Cheatham, who was looking in disgust at the splattered bits and pieces of goblin brain all over the room.

"He said to flick it! It ain't my fault the bugger didn't dodge..."

"Merlin's cauldron, Mr Potter! You certainly did a number on our wands supplier," Roben commented, raising himself over the counter to look at the mess.

Harry picked the other two wands from the counter and stomped out of the boarded shop, barely noticing Wormtail trembling and relieving himself on his shoulder, with an astounded short Hadrian trailed by a very angry, second and larger Hadrian fingering the wand Harry had flicked as well as the goblin-made bejewelled contraption.

"Wanker goblin... How was I s'possed to know me flick had to be _away_ from him?"

Roben steered Harry down the alley while he continued muttering and cursing the goblin's ancestry and guided him towards a blank stretch of decaying brick wall, where the Hadrians waved their wands around and then began searching the wall, tapping it here and there while muttering some gibberish under their breath. Moments later, the ground began to swirl and an elaborate white marble round staircase appeared on the ground.

While not surprising any longer, Harry still whistled at the display of magic. "Where we goin'?"

"To appraise the true extent of your wealth, Mr Potter. After you," Cheatham gestured for Harry to descend and he followed, behind them Roben waved his wand and closed the entrance to the posh stairs.

Harry perked up at this, he'd been excited about receiving money, but after learning so much from Binns about the magical world and his own history and family in particular, he wondered how many wonderful trinkets and magic knowledge he might have access to! He still felt no connection to his parents at an emotional level, but perhaps once he finds out _why_ he'd been left for dead in a hospital door soon after surviving and destroying Lord What's-His-Name, he might be able to come to terms with them.

Binns had been furious when the Hadrians and Harry told him the Boy-Who-Lived's true life history, in fact Harry feared the bloke was going to hug and kiss him back then, but it seems the official story among wizards was that their saviour was living like a pampered prince behind an unbreakable safety wall.

When Harry asked who came up with that tale or how everyone knew of his supposed fate, he was taught that magic could easily make one forget _who_ and _how_, leaving behind only the knowledge of _what_. In sum, witches and wizards needed to trust in the honour of their peers, for anything and everything they know and do can be influenced or modified by various magical means. Which explains how useful a carefully worded magic oath or contract is.

The group continued to descend in silence, and despite the more than adequate illumination Harry picked the rat on his shoulder and squeezed, not risking to loose his parents' murderer in a moment of distraction. If he hadn't enough money to pay for Hogwarts and the services of Cheatham & Roben, at least he could offer Peter the Rat to them or to the Ministry, for a reward or something.

After another twenty or so steps, they walked under an ornate archway and stood before a double door decorated with a pair of carved human skulls whose lower jaws bit on a crossed wand and dagger. "Welcome to Skullsnatchers Gentlemen's Club, Mr Potter. May I remind you first, that you are our guest here and, due to your upbringing, your speech and behaviour _will_ be frowned upon within these walls, your fame being irrelevant."

"What d'you mean--"

"Please do not take this as a personal insult, it is merely a circumstance of your life... One we might be able to help you with, if you wish," Roben said, looking straight at Harry.

Fuming and cursing the uptight bastards, but knowing his life had been turned around and backwards ever since those owls delivered his Hogwarts letter, Harry said he'd try to speak as well as possible, and follow their lead inside their fancy club. "Fine, I'll mind me talk-- I mean, mind _my_ speech _and_ follow your example. See? I won't even scratch me balls!"

Cheatham raised his arms to the ceiling and shook his head, while Roben simply smiled and jammed his wand into one of the skulls' right eye socket, making it shriek and cackle. At once the wooden door swung open and a creature Harry could now recognize as a house-elf bowed low, holding a silver tray with a folded parchment note on it.

The Hadrians read the note and nodded absently, asking for Harry to follow them. He stepped into a round room where a uniformed man asked for their cloaks and hats; he looked disgusted at the rat perched on Harry's shoulder, and then horrified at his clothes beneath the loaned cloak.

"Come, our fellow wizard awaits by the Smoking Room."

Harry followed the wizards, looking at everything he could lay eyes on, until they were swiftly approached by an old man wearing a fez hat and a golden monocle. "Good morning Hadrian, you as well Hadrian, how do you do?" the man greeted and bowed his head at all three of them, tipping the unusual hat.

"Good morning Horatio, all is well, thank you. May I introduce you to our guest and client?"

"Mr Potter, meet Mr Greengrass, honourable member of the Wizengamot and holder of the Chair of Aquilo within the Octagon of the Winds," presented Roben.

As the formal introduction ended, Greengrass looked down at Harry and sniffed, lifting his nose high in the air as if smelling something foul. "Dear me, you were quite accurate in your description Hadrian."

Gritting his teeth, Harry bit back a few insults and simply kept his gaze locked on the clear blue eyes that continued to judge him. Wormtail, however, was quite curious about the Head of the Greengrass family, who'd never pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord despite all the glory he promised to bring to the wizarding world.

"Tell me, young Mr Potter, how confused is your feeble Muggle-infected mind by all the magic around you? Are you about to panic and deny its might or will you meekly surrender to the will of your betters, in the same fashion of your dead simpleton parents?" asked the monocled man, bending forward and challenging Harry.

"Me life's me own 'n I won't _ever_ be anyone's stooge, _sir_!" grunted Harry, fingering the handle of his blade. "Oh, 'n if you wanna see me magic at work, check out the freakin' headless goblin wand-dealer upstairs."

Greengrass straightened up and smiled, still keeping eye contact with the small urchin in front of him. "Strong words from a brute. Although I sense your unrefined power, young Mr Potter, do you possess the will to better yourself, to become that which is expected of you?"

Harry kept looking up at the irritatingly stuck-up wizard and reined in his thoughts. The murdering rat on his shoulder had told him he was the cause of Lord Whatever's death, the Hadrians had bent over backwards to work for him but were admittedly very shady individuals, and the entire magical society claimed he was some big-wig hero. Had he just landed the opportunity of a lifetime? Or was he poised to become a puppet to wizards like these?

"Speak the truth, 'n I'll respect you. Teach me, 'n I'll learn. Cross me ... 'n you'll die."

While the wizards digested Harry's words, Peter squeaked and cursed himself for his misfortune. "Why, of all bloody wizards in all of bloody Britain, did I have to meet Harry bloody Potter?!" The boy was a menace to wizardkind if left to learn magic without boundaries, he'd shape this world to suit him, that's for sure. Harry had the power to do it, he saw the magic dancing in his eyes when he snapped the Dark Lord's wand, and that power had to be trained and controlled.

Did Peter have enough leverage to control and submit Harry Potter to his will? Was he even willing to try? He was toying with the idea of killing the brat at first chance, but then again the boy could be kept alive and be made useful until Lord Voldemort returned.

Wormtail continued to pay attention to the three wizards as they sat around a low table, a house-elf bringing them plates of cheese and ham, a pint of butterbeer as well as two glasses of cognac and a warm firewhiskey over greensleaf flame for Greengrass.

"Mr Potter, first and foremost, we shall conduct our business," the monocled wizard said, "which pertains to these usually unobtainable records. Please understand that there are some in our vast society who would ... frown upon our means, and I must stress that my name never leaves your lips."

"I've only been out for a drink today with my handlers, Hadrian and Hadrian. Never saw a man wearin' a funny red hat," Harry said with a smile.

"Good. Since I am a gentleman above all, I cannot in good conscience open this Last Will and Testament, but I will answer any inquiries and present the sum of your worth afterwards, for unless your inheritance is revoked by unforeseen stipulations, Gringotts has provided an accurate statement."

Taking the roll of parchment in his hands, Harry noticed a double seal and a series of ribbons hanging from it, as well as a golden stamp of sorts with the name Dumbledore scribbled across it. He looked at Cheatham and Roben for confirmation and, with a nod from them, tore the seals open and spread the document on the table, holding it by the edges with his glass of ale and a heavy ashtray.

"_In January the First of the Year of our Lord 1,981 we, James Tiberius and Lily Marie Potter, of sound mind and able magic, declare our will be done in regards to inheritance of our worldly possessions._

_That in the event of one our deaths, our surviving married partner shall inherit all titles and properties, and obligations as Head of Family. When none survives, all titles shall pass to the eldest of our heirs and properties shall be distributed equally among them. Should one or more of our heirs be not of adulthood, guardianship and representation shall be offered in order of preference to Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black or Frank Longbottom. In the event of refusal or inability to perform such duties, a competent guardian shall be pursued under guidance from the Ministry for Magic._

The words swam in Harry's eyes and he couldn't make much heads or tails of it; all he understood was that for some reason the Headmaster of Hogwarts had been named as his guardian. Was this the man that left him nameless in the doorstep of a Muggle hospital, almost dead? If not, was it any of the others?

He must have been too obvious, because Greengrass coughed and gained his attention. "If you are wondering who your guardian should have been, and why you found yourself abandoned among Muggles, Mr Potter, I fear that information has been impossible to attain. However, since yesterday Hadrian has provided you with a suitable guardian and all the parchmentwork has been ... magically filed in all the appropriate places, you shouldn't worry about your current status."

"What of this Albus blok-- Albus person, why was his name on the will?" Harry asked.

"Mr Dumbledore had it sealed. To the best of my knowledge, he _might_ have accepted initial responsibility for you, yet all I found was an obscured transfer of guardianship dated November the first of 1981, the day after your defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Obscured to prevent anyone from finding our client's whereabouts?" Roben guessed, to which Greengrass nodded and Cheatham voiced his own thoughts.

"In a way it was for the best. Mr Potter was and probably is a target of You-Know-Who's followers to this day."

"Ain't that right," Harry snorted and glanced subtly at the agitated rat on his shoulder. On that subject, he wondered if he'd have to keep watching his back everyday from now on, "There many of those Lord Whatever followers around?"

The Hadrians thought for a second and Roben was about to answer when Greengrass raised a hand. "A greater number than you would ever have me acknowledge in public. Our Minister for Magic would tell you there are none left out of Azkaban, however I know for certain some of my esteemed Wizengamot colleagues have allowed themselves to be branded as farm animals. Frankly disgusting."

"Improper breeding always shows," commented Cheatham, waving a hand as if to dismiss some annoying bug in front of his face.

"What's Asskebum?" Harry asked, drinking the last of his ale and clicking his fingers. A house-elf popped next to him and he waved his empty mug.

"The Isle of Azkaban is a wizarding prison, Mr Potter. The second man named in your parents' will, he betrayed them and was sentenced to life in Azkaban for murdering Peter Pettigrew."

"_Murdering_ a man named Peter Pettigrew, huh?" said Harry, who had grabbed the white rat with lightning speed, squeezing him tightly. "You say this Peter Pettigrew is supposed to be dead?"

"He was a known friend of your family, and he's not supposed to be dead. He _is_ dead. All that was found in the scene was his little finger," explained Roben while wiggling his own very small pinkie.

The Smoking Room at Skullsnatchers had become a very stifling place for the aforementioned Peter Pettigrew. He could feel the walls closing in on him and, worse of all, he could almost feel an imaginary cold metal blade cutting on his neck. Wormtail knew he was doomed the moment Greengrass had spoken his name.

He began to think furiously on an escape plan, but he was now in the bowels of some club he'd never heard about, deep beneath Knockturn Alley and surrounded by wizards with wands! Not to mention a psychotic Harry Potter and his bloody dagger. "I should've faked my name!" he scolded himself, which sounded like a pitiful squeak to the human wizards around him.

"Let's say he ain't, I mean _isn't_ dead. How much is Peter Pettigrew worth alive?"

"It would exonerate Black of his murder, and perhaps clarify the mystery of your survival. Other than that, he wouldn't be worth a single Knut."

"That worthless, huh?" he grumbled and ran a finger along the rat's spine with his free hand, squeezing the murderer a little further with the other.

"Speaking of worth, Mr Potter, shall we move forward to discuss the extent of your wealth?"

Harry's eyes sparkled at the mention of money, he'd be able to live as he wished instead of bunking inside filthy buildings and stealing from other people to survive. "Of course," he said, mimicking the stuck-up accent Greengrass used.

They rolled up the Potter Will and unrolled a few pages of parchment, written in very tight and small block letters. Harry was used to squinting and guessing details he couldn't really see from afar, and although his instincts never let him down, he could only do so far with written words. He sat back with a huff and took his frustration on Peter the Rat, lifting him by the tail and dunking his head into the third cold butterbeer the house-elf had brought him.

The rat kept sputtering and twitching until a cough from Greengrass called for Harry's attention. "We are in civilized company, Mr Potter. Please put the animal down?"

"You people are no fun... 'Sides, I won't be able to read it," he said, pointing at the parchment.

"How do you mean? Are you ... illiterate?"

"I dunno, I mean I don't know what litter-eight means, but I can't read stuff so small, 'n I don't really read good enough..."

"Spectacles," the Hadrians said in unison and glared at each other, something Harry found funny and even Greengrass managed to crack a smile at the situation.

"Your hereditary titles shall be claimed in Muggle fashion, within the walls of London Tower as is custom. Unfortunately the Ministry for Magic has refused acknowledgement of these since before the turn of the century, however they will command enough respect within the right circles."

"As for your land ownership," continued Greengrass, "there are eleven listed properties. Five are located in the British Empire and six elsewhere. Of the first five, three are within the Isles, the first of which has no value since the building is either destroyed or uninhabitable, one is a manor located in London proper that has been vacant for decades and another is farming land up North. The following two are a manor in Shimla, Indian Western Himalayas, and a seaside resort in Tasmania."

Harry thought his eyeballs were about to spring out of their sockets, but the old wizard soldiered on with his report. "Your six remaining properties are mostly productive farming and mining in the Central Andes, in Southern Siberia, the Ruhr in Germania and Tuscany, Italy. The other two are small land masses in the Aegean and the Caribbean."

"I've got a fuckin' island?!"

"A pair of small land masses, Mr Potter... Please contain yourself!"

Making a silly victory dance that consisted of throwing Peter high up into the air, twirling on his feet and then catching the falling rat again, Harry finally looked at the annoyed and disapproving faces around him and sat back down, clicking his fingers for yet another cold ale.

"The document also details your liquid assets, which are quite conservative and dwindling rapidly because of the inactive productive properties. There is a separate vault for your Hogwarts expenditure as well, and here we arrive at the most interesting part of your assets: heirlooms."

"Her who's?"

"Heirlooms, Mr Potter! I am a patient man, however you are grating my nerves. And _no more brewed beverages_, you are underage for Merlin's sake!"

"Sod off! I've been livin' on me own 'n feedin' meself since I's seven years old, you don't get to tell me what to do!" he said and then sighed, rubbing his face. Harry wasn't so dumb as to ignore the fact these wizards were, for all he knew, his best option at understanding the world of magic. Not only that, the Hadrians were resourceful and crafty, handling his wishes in anonymity and granting him the means to achieve the freedom he wanted, while this Greengrass fellow seemed to belong to a higher sphere of wizards.

Harry felt he was in with the big sharks, and didn't want to blow his chances. "I'm sorry sir. You've been a pro and I _do_ wanna belong to your ... world o' magic. I _want_ to be a better wizard than my parents were, and I _will_ become what I'm expected to be. This I promise you all on my life 'n magic!"

No wizard remained oblivious to the green fire dancing inside the little boy's eyes or the golden light sealing his oath. Harry Potter had just taken his first step into controlling his magical power.

* * *

Notes:

1.- The Aquilo is one of the four winds (North, East, South and West) as named by the Romans, who of course inherited the original Greek belief. There are also deities for N.E., S.E., N.W. and S.W. winds. 


	3. Chapter 3: Hogwarts at Last

**Chapter 3: Hogwarts at Last**

First order of business after having lunch in Skullsnatchers was authorizing payment to Cheatham & Roben, whose namesakes looked almost giddy holding the final bank draft of G*42,849 plus S'8 and K^1 to their name. Their hourly fees would be, as agreed, half their usual rate of two Galleons, eleven Sickles, and Harry graciously evened it up to G*1 plus S'6.

Second order of business was a thorough healer inspection. As Greengrass had said, "Who knows what sort of vermin does the runt carries with him." Harry was sitting in a plush leather recliner, enjoying the way Peter the Rat dodged out of the way of an enchanted scalpel he'd found in Healer Kevorkian's office.

"Good afternoon everyone, I apologize for my tardiness, there were some ... complications ... with my former patient. He died!" the healer announced with a laugh and Harry began to have a bad feeling about the crazy-looking man.

"Now, Mr Powder, let's get you out of those hideous rags, shall we?" the healer said, butchering his newly found name and waving his deep-red wand. A twirl of it and a funny word later, Harry was as naked as the day he was born.

"Watch it! Freakin' perv, where's me clothes?!"

"Awww... Hush now, Mr Pewter, all I need is to examine you inside and out."

Unbidden images of the old crazy fart sticking his wand in places he'd rather not imagine assaulted Harry, but he sagged in relief, while still keeping his hands over his privates, when Healer Kevorkian kept mumbling and waving while a floating quill wrote things on parchment. The Hadrians had thoughtfully turned to face out the window, Roben holding the rat by the tail and Cheatham counting some Galleons from a small velvet pouch.

"Who would you consider patient and powerful enough..."

"...to teach our rebellious client?" Roben finished the question for Cheatham.

"Mr Greengrass for culture and politics, undoubtedly. Binns for reading and writing, as well as history and broom flight..."

"...and Madam Thicknesse could be spared a few hours work for teaching him transfiguration and basic charms. She'd be delighted, I'm sure."

Cheatham agreed, looking back at the naked savage swatting Healer Kevorkian's hands away from him. He tried hard to hate the boy because of his Potter heritage, but all things considered the whelp was such a disgrace by himself that he couldn't really add to his misery. In any event, Hadrian Cheatham had already honoured his family by taking a large sum of Potter treasure, and would continue to profit from Harry Potter for as long as he remained a client of his.

"I will seek Herr Schwarzherz for fencing, duelling magic and his initiation into the Dark Arts," the larger wizard finally said.

Sighing, the smaller Hadrian agreed reluctantly. "I shall teach him mathematics and introduce some arithmancy, but you've always been better at potions."

"True."

"It will be an interesting month."

"Touch me again 'n I'll choke you to death with me own hands!" the still naked boy yelled.

"Calm down Mr Plover, it's just a probity probe..."

"Fuckin' wanker!"

"Yes, an interesting month indeed," Cheatham concurred.

* * *

Wormtail was a wreck. What had started as a glimpse of freedom had quickly turned out to be one disaster after another. First he met Harry Potter and eventually caused him to return to the magical world; then he lost his Master's wand to the same Harry Potter and the unworthy whelp snapped it in two! And to make things worse, without thinking he'd confirmed Harry Potter's godfather was jailed in Azkaban under false charges.

If all the previous events weren't enough, the boy had taken to torture him all day long, knowing Peter couldn't show himself freely among wizards.

He was now resting on Harry's shoulder, walking back to the house in Knockturn Alley that those twice be damned Hadrians had provided. That was another mistake he'd made, leading Harry to Cheatham and Roben's office, who instead of killing the child wanted to milk him out of every Knut he has.

"They didn't count on his foul mouth and stubbornness," Peter mused, remembering the way Harry carried himself while Onionsupple redacted the contracts that actually bound the handlers to their newest client.

Peter did take some satisfaction at the embarrassing and sometimes painful examinations the healer put Harry through, but he along with Healer Kevorkian and the Hadrians were left scratching their heads at the triple magical emissions James' little runt had. The boy was a freak of nature, although he suspected what the freakishness was due to the way the Dark Lord's wand core reacted to him.

It didn't take a genius to see that a boy who survived the killing course must have some phoenix attributes in him. _How_ and _why_ were the relevant questions now.

Knowing he was going to be locked inside that cold metallic box as soon as they entered the house, Peter enjoyed the breeze on his whiskers, thinking hard about the mysterious ways of magic. One way or another he seemed bound to walk a convoluted path around Potter and his ilk.

Resentment and jealousy had driven a wedge between him and the Marauders. He'd had lots of fun with them, Peter was also smart enough to use them for improving his schoolwork, as well as enjoy some benefits from the sway his friends had with the girls. But the Pettigrews were a young, third generation pureblood family, nowhere as alluring or as ancient as the Blacks and Potters, which was one of the reasons he couldn't understand Sirius and James' refusal to acknowledge the Dark Lord and his glory. Why couldn't they _see_ the wonders of a pure society in a world where wizards no longer had to hide? Why hadn't they _craved_ the power Peter felt when he took another's life for the first time?

It was _their_ attitude that caused him to betray his friends; if they wouldn't acknowledge Lord Voldemort and his power, they'd be crushed by it. And now Harry was doing the same, ridiculing his Master's name and associating with blood-traitors who couldn't ever understand the honour of bearing the Dark Mark. It made him unique, it gave him power and protection. It put fear in the hearts of the unworthy.

"Farm animals," Peter snorted silently. "I'll show them how to scream and _die_ like a farm animal!"

If there was something he'd learned in his last months of life as a Marauder, it was how to be inconspicuous and how to divert attention to someone else. He still got a laugh at the suspicion the half-breed Lupin had been subjected to at the time, "Moony got what he deserved anyway, no werewolf should be allowed free reign among wizards, let alone a wand" Peter complained.

Soon they reached for the concealed doorway into the Hadrians' chosen safe-house and he was left alone with the little psychopath. Hoping Harry wouldn't start playing with any of the three wands he'd gathered after visiting the grave-robber, he made to jump of the boy's shoulder but thought better of it and, glancing up, silently asked for permission.

"Geroff me before you shit all over me clothes, you damn rat!"

Wormtail jumped and landed on the gleaming mahogany dinner table, quickly pulling his pink tail away from Harry's dagger as he stabbed the wooden surface.

"Your life's in me hands, rat-face, 'n I'll be askin' you this one time only. Did you kill me family yourself?"

Easing out of his rat form, Peter the wizard sat on the edge of the table with his legs dangling over the edge, watching the dagger out of the corner of his eyes. Unfortunately that wasn't the only weapon the little psycho had at his disposal, because Cheatham had reluctantly allowed him to keep the three wands, promising to visit the dead grave-robber's establishment once a new owner settled in to inquire about the origin of his other two wands.

"No. I told you my Lord and Master did it."

Nodding absently, Harry plucked the black dagger from the table and asked another question. "Gimme one o' them magic oaths to always say the truth, 'n then tell me what you know 'bout that."

"Or else _what_, Potter? Do you think I'll--"

Whatever rants Peter wanted to shout were cut short by a fist to his nose. Who knew such a small fist could pack a mighty punch?

"Bloo'y 'ell, my nofe! You b'oke my nofe!"

"Quit your whinin', it's only a bit o' blood..." said Harry, kicking himself for loosing his cool. "Just pinch your fuckin' nose with your chubby fingers, bloody bastard!"

"Epifkey!" Peter moaned between his hands.

"You wanna drink some whiskey?"

"_Epifkey!_ Caft the fpell wid a wand!"

Watching the rat-man point at the wands in his pocket and wave a hand over his face, Harry understood Peter's intent and waved a finger side to side. "Fuck no! I'm not gonna help you 'til you swear a magic oath to me," he insisted and punched his battered nose again to drive the point across.

"I fwear on my life an' magic to anfwer Hawy Potte' wid the trudh to any of hif queftionf!" yelled Peter while a shining glow encapsulated his body. "Now wafe da bloo'y wand!"

"You sure? That goblin thing got its head blown up when I waved me wand..."

Because of the oath, Peter tried to say yes, but all that came out of his mouth was "not weally, but I can't be feen by a bloo'y healer, can I?" Harry shrugged and pulled the shortest stick, rehearsed the word and pointed it at the mangled and bloodied nose.

"Epifkey!" he shouted, feeling a slight prickle along his right arm, all the way down to the fingers holding the wand.

The result was ... less than perfect. Cartilage and bone knitted together with an unsettling sound, but the resulting nose came out extremely off-centre and rather crooked, with its tip a pink colour typical of laboratory mice.

"The incantation is Episkey, with an S!" whined Peter as he cleaned his face with a sleeve.

"Sod off, I did me best!" Harry said, laughing at the weird way the nose came up. "Now I'll ask you again, stinkin' rat, did you kill me parents?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"The Dark Lord."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Where you there?"

"Yes, I've told you I was there!"

Harry paused and scratched his butt before pacing in front of Peter, never taking his eyes out of the man. "You gonna kill me as soon as you can?"

"Nnn-- N-- Yes, damn it, yes!"

Laughing, the boy sat on a chair and pointed one of his wands at the disfigured man. "I love this magic shite, you can't lie to me now!"

"Cocky little bastard," mumbled Peter.

"Tell me rat-face. Why shouldn't I rat you to them Hadrians?"

"Because I'm the one who helped you find Diagon Alley! You actually owe _me_, you bloody brat!"

Snorting, Harry waved Peter off. "What were you doin' at me parents' house when they died?"

"I-- I was-- My Lord needed me for the secret. I was the Secret Keeper for the location of your home."

Tilting his head, the young interrogator demanded an explanation. Spurred by his oath, Peter had to answer with the truth and he told what a Fidelius Charm and what the role of the Secret Keeper were, as well as how he saw Lord Voldemort going in, but his Master never left the Potters' hiding place.

"Then what?"

"There was this big explosion that threw me back a dozen yards and I lost my wand, than I ran into the house but found ... no signs of life. That's when I picked the wand _you_ snapped! I thought you were dead too, Twitch, but then I heard about Dumbledore finding you alive and the rest you know..."

"If I snuffed Lord What's-His-Name back then, wouldn't you forget about killin' me while I sleep?"

Peter flinched and squeaked. "No, he'd know and he'd kill me instantly for not trying..."

"So he ain't dead, huh?" Harry asked, coming to the only logical conclusion that would justify Peter's fear.

"This is the Dark Mark," the man said and pulled his sleeve up. "It's pale and quiet now, but if my Master was truly dead, I believe it'd be gone, Twitch."

"Huh... That's what Greengrass was talkin' about. You know, branded farm animals?"

"He doesn't understand the power of the Mark!"

"Chill out, I'm not tellin' you off. But I dunno, I'd never be this Lord's slave like you are," Harry said sincerely, looking at the skull with a snake on its mouth. He found it oddly similar to the door at Skullsnatchers, except the club's emblem had a wand and a dagger instead of the snake.

"I'm a bit outta my league here. I mean those wizards in the club are the big sharks, ain't them? So I'd hate to be a stooge to 'em, same as I'll never be a puppet under Cheatham's soddin' fat fingers. I want you to teach me all about your Master 'n tell me the names o' your old pals, so I know who I'm dealin' with."

"Why, what's in it for me?"

With a shrug, Harry flipped his dagger on his hand. "You get to live."

* * *

Two weeks later, halfway until September the First, Harry was a walking corpse. "Inferi," he reminded himself, the rudimentary knowledge of the Dark Arts floating somewhere amidst the correct way of eating a bloody boiled firecrab and the difficulties of fractional math.

"You look terrible, Twitch."

"Thanks..." he said and flipped the wizard his middle finger.

"You know I hate your guts, don't you?" Peter asked as he was wont to almost every other day.

"Aye, you've made it perfectly clear. Now shut up 'n go munch on some cheese..."

Peter turned into Wormtail and, sure enough, raced towards a mouth-watering block of fresh cheddar on the end of the table. He'd come to a mutual stand-off against Harry: both wanted the other dead, but either had enough reasons to keep the other alive.

Many things surprised Peter regarding Twitch, as Harry preferred to be called, the latest of which was his reply when he brought Sirius Black's issue to the table. After he'd asked the boy what his plans were regarding his godfather now that he knew of his innocence, Harry had shrugged and said "I don't give a rat's arse. Or as Mr Greengrass would say, his situation is inconsequential to me."

Yes, the boy was a Muggle animal in wizard's clothing all right.

Harry had ended up buying the heavily warded and fortified flat in Knockturn Alley along with Waxball, and the Hadrians had purchased a more efficient elf from the Flint family, ripping them off in the process. The negotiations for the property had lasted almost a full week because Harry was under intense schooling, nine hours every day except Sundays, and wrangling both price and conditions had become almost an amusement for him.

In the end, he paid a hefty nineteen thousand Galleons and kept all the furniture, plus Waxball the obese creature, but relinquished the extensive library and all valuable decorations.

Having a house-elf and his own place to live allowed him to keep Peter the Rat a secured prisoner. He couldn't leave by conventional means, nor could he use magical forms of travel, and he was confined to a suite all night, while the elf was ordered by its owner Harry to protect him with its life if necessary, as well as to report everything Peter did.

Unlocking the main door by tapping it with a wand and whispering the day's password, Harry opened and closed it behind him quickly, always looking at the ground in search of a chubby white rat trying to escape. Satisfied after Waxball informed him that "wizard Pet-Is-Grilled is being insideses," he waited for the locks and magical wards to take hold before walking down the alley and into Cheatham & Roben for his evening lessons.

An overexcited Julius Binns waited for him with another pile of history books and Harry sat, as usual, as far away from him as possible. The middle-aged wizard's father was a teacher at Hogwarts, but unlike him, the present Binns had no Ministry restrictions on what to disclose and what should remain forever hidden, and completed the intertwined history of Muggles and wizards alike.

A whooshing sound indicated an active Floo connection and Harry looked up to see Greengrass walking up to them, cutting and lighting a cigar with his wand and sitting in the chair opposite him. He was wearing his monocle and a green buccaneer hat this time. "With your permission, Mr Potter, I will be joining your last universal history overview. I trust you will find recent events to be ... interesting."

Three-quarters of an hour later, Harry had been lightly instructed on the first half of twentieth century history, a basic knowledge that would be enough to make him understand the world he lived in, and with some effort could be the basis for a cultured education, along with the myriad of other subjects the famous young wizard was studying.

"So this Greatwall dark wizard wanted to rule all Muggles here and in the continent, managed to create an army of pureblood fanatics around his cause, and it took _one_ wizard to finish him off? That's ridiculous!"

"Grindelwald, dear," Binns corrected with a sigh.

"As ridiculous as a year and a half old wizard surviving the Killing Curse and banishing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a decade ago?" challenged Greengrass before pausing to enjoy his cigar.

Harry had no reply to that, and Binns took the chance to continue with recent historic events. It took another half hour to go over the rise and fall of You-Know-Who, its consequences and the current state of Magical Britain. Old pureblood wizards and witches still waved the flag of supremacy while the rest looked up to Albus Dumbledore as their champion and sole defender.

"Does having a Muggle-born mother make me inferior, Mr Greengrass?" Harry asked bluntly.

"You must realize, Mr Potter, that contrary to most fanatics' beliefs, blood has nothing to do with being a proper wizard. A gentleman wizard can be born to Muggle parentage and be much better bred than a pureblooded magical scion when the latter is unable to carry a civil conversation or understand the very nature of wizarding prowess."

Harry had been instructed on the meanings of pureblood, mixed blood and Muggleborn, and the tacit superiority of the first over the rest, a concept preached by old families and supported by discriminatory laws. Magical law also dealt with the inferior sentient races and half-breed magicals, limiting their rights and keeping then bound to their proper ranking in society. He was keenly aware of the older man's dislike for the followers of Lord Voldemort, who was the symbol of pureblooded supremacy, but Greengrass' answer still made him narrow his eyes at the wizard questioningly.

"Yes, Mr Potter. Quite opposite to what you were taught in the past two weeks, is it not?" the wizard said and enjoyed another puff of his cigar. "It is not my duty to tell you what to think, yet I pride myself on empowering you to choose by yourself and achieve the oath you pledged in our first meeting."

To become the best wizard he could be, to overcome his parents weakness, and to achieve the power expected of him.

As Harry was reaffirming the first real goals he ever had in life beyond surviving the day, the ailment that gave him the name Twitch made an unwelcome appearance. His eyes rolled back and his body began to shake, loosing his sitting position and falling to the floor in a twitching heap, while Binns looked scared and Greengrass calmly asked Madame Thicknesse to call Healer Kevorkian.

"Stupefy," incanted the aristocratic wizard, hitting Harry on the chest with a spell that made him relax and fall into a deep unconsciousness. "This, is actually quite disturbing."

* * *

It was almost midnight of August the twenty-fourth and this was his first outing into the Muggle world since he'd followed Peter's directions into Diagon Alley. Harry shook his head, recovering from side-along Apparition and walked towards a concealed entrance to the Tower of London behind the Honourable Horatio Greengrass Earl of Northgrowanfeld, a peerage most wizards ignored and an additional title to his Lordship as a Wizengamot member and his seat in the secretive Octagon of the Winds.

On his right walked Sir Hadrian Cheatham whose hereditary knighthood had been dubiously purchased from a Muggle knight in Ireland four generations ago, and Hadrian Roben who owned no titles but was next in line for Head of the Official Gobstones Club in the Ministry for Magic.

"Can I read the declaration from parchment?" asked Harry, afraid to forget the exact recitations.

"I foresee no problems with that action," replied Greengrass. "Do remember to draw your preferred wand, however."

"In you go, young sir. And good luck!" Roben exclaimed.

Harry crossed the threshold of an invisible portal and landed in a dark, unkempt room with high ceilings, cracked wood panelling and moth-eaten tapestries. "Huh, so much for a royal setting," he thought, and cast a lumos spell to better see the other end of the room, where a large throne stood, covered in spider webs.

He was about to recite his declaration when movement caught his eye from the left. "Hello?" he called, thankful for the charmed scratch- and dust-free spectacles that kept the hanging webs from sticking to them. They didn't keep the silk from gluing to the rest of his face, though.

Spitting and cursing the blasted spiders and their mothers to hell and back, he approached the wall and illuminated a peeling painting. A magical painting, judging by the way the painted clock on the wall was actually ticking.

After he illuminated both ends of the wall and saw no further movement, Harry turned and went back to the centre of the room, produced a roll of parchment, lifted his wand and began to read.

_By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may claim the Ducal of Druidmoor as is my birthright by blood, my desire by choice and my honour to bear in my name. Semper Iustus, so mote it be._

_By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may serve under the mantle of Knight of Scruffgoat, the Red Knight, as is my birthright by blood, my desire by choice and my honour to wear on my shoulders. Semper Fidelis, so mote it be._

_By your leave in absence, I boldly approach you that I may join the Noble Houses as is my birthright by the blood of Potter, which is my honour to have in my veins. Semper Nobilis, so mote it be._

After he finished the recitations, Harry looked around expecting something, anything to happen. The room was still dark and dirty, the tapestries still full of holes. "Bugger, that's a real turn-off..." he complained and left from whence he came, ignoring the old woman that appeared in the magical portrait.

"Congratulations your grace!" Greengrass said and bowed slightly. "From now on you should strive more fiercely to honour these titles, for they are more than a crest, a sword and a ring. Use their power well to serve your intent in full."

"Thank you Lord Greengrass," answered Harry, wiping spider webs from his ears with an index finger.

Another Apparition later and he was back in Knockturn Alley, said goodbye to the elder wizards and crossed the concealing wards to the main door of his flat. A quick call to Waxball later he was informed that Peter the Rat was locked inside his suite and Harry tapped the eye-shaped knocker, muttered the password and entered.

He wondered why the Ministry for Magic had abolished the acknowledgement of peerage and knighthood, and at the same time found it strange that he had to claim his place as Head of Family Potter inside the Muggle building, when he was already wearing the ring that was stored at Gringotts since the first of the month. The official reason was because of the Statute of Secrecy, but he was sure there was more than that.

"One more week," he grumbled and opened a book on Charms while pulling his phoenix feather quill and parchment to write down a new list of incantations before falling asleep.

Four days later Harry was headed for Diagon Alley. He wanted to make a splash after his public announcement at Hogwarts, make himself stand-out in the crowd and become instantly recognizable while, at the same time, distancing himself from the ridiculous title of Boy-Who-Lived. For that purpose he ordered his school cloaks fitted with his ducal coronet and family crest, made sure to request the goblins find the Red Knight sword inside his cluttered vault and refused to have a simple fat pigeon for a pet.

Eeylops Emporium had owls galore, dozens of yodelling cats and caged slimy toads croaking about. Fortunately for him, they also had more exclusive charmed mail carriers and exotic familiars, and soon found himself face to face with a spotted black on white falcon with dark, almost black eyes with a half-eaten ferret hanging from its beak, blood dripping in steady droplets from it.

"That's a gyrfalcon, young sir. Takes a strong will ter keep 'em it does," the owner explained. "Hauls parcels too, and this 'un flies long distance at high speeds."

After a quick negotiation he paid an even twenty-two Galleons with a free book on falcons and hawks, as well as a free gold tag with his name. The bird had shown immediate respect for Harry, and Harry enjoyed the feeling of sharing an emotion with another living being other than pity, fear, hatred or contempt.

Caesar would become a friend; a feathery, vicious, carnivorous friend.

Required textbooks and a proper trunk were his next purchases, and after ordering a seven-compartment expanded black one with secure latches and a self-shrinking charm, he headed to Gringotts for one last trip to his vault for Galleons and Muggle pounds before boarding the Hogwarts Express in three days time.

A couple hundred yards up Diagon Alley, an old wandmaker looked nervous and agitated. The one customer he truly _needed_ to see hadn't visited his shop all month, and September the First was just around the corner. Ollivander sighed and swirled his glass of Ogden's Finest while looking out the window, wondering what might have happened to James and Lily's son.

* * *

The morning of September the First found Harry in a fight of words and swords with Peter. Truth be told, only the boy was armed and kept clawing his sword around the old wizard who was cowering against a corner of the kitchen.

"Fuckin' sack of shite, you're coming with me in one piece or in loads of smaller bits, I don't really care!" Harry yelled, swinging his Red Knight sword again and chipping the floor tiles between Peter's legs, inches away from his manhood.

"I swear I'll stay here, Twitch! You've got the elf to watch me!"

Harry growled and sheathed the sword with a practised flourish, then began to pace the kitchen while glaring at the animagus. "No, you're coming with me... Damn it Pettigrew, you know that effin' place better than anyone alive! Don't you wanna go back?"

"No, I don't," replied Peter, still held by the foolish magical oath he'd voiced a month ago that made him always answer the truth to Harry's questions.

"You afraid someone's gonna recognize you?"

"Yes."

Straddling a chair and clicking his fingers for Waxball to bring him a cold butterbeer, Harry continued his questions. "Who's gonna recognize you as a rat? I understand if they saw your ugly face, but in your animal form?"

"I don't-- I d-- Damn it, Severus Snape would, all right? He saw me turn a couple of times."

"Huh... You did name Snape as one of your old chums. He's a marked animal, and if he saw _you_ it'd be a problem for _me_... How the hell did a Death Eater get to be Potions Professor at Hogwarts, anyway?" asked the boy to himself, but Peter was compelled to answer nonetheless.

"Probably named the rest of us true followers of the Dark Lord and begged for mercy, renouncing the glory of my Master."

No, Harry had learnt much in the past four weeks, and his already streetwise mind coupled with what he now knew of magic understood that it would take a monumental event to change a branded fanatic's allegiance, because a willing Death eater would _never_ betray his Master in exchange for his or her life. Either that, or Dumbledore was a fool.

"Look, I don't have time for this. Just turn into a rat and I'll leave enough food here while the elf takes care of you," he said looking defeated.

Peter smirked and silently laughed at winning a hand over the Potter brat, before shrinking into Wormtail and waddling towards the cheese on the table. He was still congratulating himself and formulating an escape plan when a sudden spell flew his way.

"Petrificus totalus," Harry cast and then pulled his dagger, swinging it down on the rat's tail, a quarter of an inch from the body. Picking the severed pink tail and tossing it into the magical trash can, he grabbed the bleeding rat and called for his house-elf. "Waxball! Get me some brown and black hair dye, we've got a hamster to make!"

Fifteen minutes later a calico hamster stood on the middle of the kitchen table where there once was a white mouse. Harry picked Peter up and rolled him inside a towel cloth, which he dumped into his trunk before making a final check of his belongings. With a tap of his wand the trunk shrunk and a fresh Hogwarts first year walked out of his flat and into Knockturn Alley, his hood up to avoid recognition before the time was right, and from any unsavoury types as well.

Caesar the gyrfalcon was already circling the sky over London, ready to follow Harry's route to Hogwarts in the Scottish Highlands. It was a quarter to ten and he stopped by the Hadrians to say goodbye, where he was hugged by an uncharacteristically emotional Madame Thicknesse, which he found creepy as hell and quickly disentangled himself from her.

Harry then shook hands with the wizards, reminding them to owl him any relevant news and to expect new requests from him, at the agreed hourly rate of a Galleon six Sickles, before extending his greetings to the assorted warlocks, gentlemen wizards and lady witches that made the month of August a one of a kind experience for him.

After leaving the shadowed, smelly alley and walking in front of the bank, he removed his travelling cloak and revealed his barely Muggle-styled clothes, appropriate for the summer and aptly coloured to blend in with the magic-ignorant populace. He let his shoulder-length hair fall loose around his face, hiding his trademark scar, and crossed The Leaky Cauldron to find a taxi and head towards King's Cross.

He paid the fare and stood in front of the station, checked the time and found he still had twenty-five minutes to board the train. The station was crowded and still he began spotting magical families everywhere, because they stuck up like sore thumbs among the Muggles. A few were able to go into platform nine and three-quarters without much fuss, others looked like they were itching to draw their wands and hex the inferior humans to oblivion, and a few looked around in awe at the vending machines and the departure and arrival notice boards.

A monocled wizard wearing a black top hat approached him from the right, Harry recognized Greengrass at once and tipped an imaginary hat of his own while the man did the same with his very real one. Next to him stood a younger wizard wearing a two-piece grey suit and a witch in a dark blue dress and matching hat with satin flowers and feathers on top.

"Your grace the Duke of Druidmoor, may I present you my grandson Alexander Greengrass and his wife Marie-Helene, and my great-granddaughters Daphne and Astoria."

"Pleased to meet you," replied Harry, knowing that the old bastard was testing him by introducing his family in such a formal way. "Lord Greengrass, I congratulate you for such a wonderful family. Dare I presume that Miss Greengrass is of Hogwarts age?"

"Indeed, Daphne is a first-year, same as your grace."

Harry looked up at the tall girl, who returned a cold and indifferent look at him. A quick talk about the Sorting Ceremony and a few formal pleasantries later, the Greengrass family vanished into the magical wall but Horatio Greengrass held Harry behind. "You did well, Mr Potter. Please remember, however, that Daphne is _my_ great-granddaughter, you so much as look at her the wrong way and I _will_ make you sorry you survived You-Know-Who."

Gulping, Harry nodded stiffly and proceeded to cross into the platform where the Hogwarts Express waited for its eleven o'clock departure. He walked the train and began to observe the young pupils, Hufflepuffs of all ages were loud and friendly, greeting people from all houses. Slytherins seemed to rally together but were subdued even among themselves, sharing a few words and stiff greetings, while Ravenclaws walked proud but looked tired, as if they had studied all summer long; in fact many had open books in their hands. The Gryffindors screamed at each other and kept laughing, they also banded together in tight packs.

He saw several boys and girls of his own age, some looked scared to death while others strutted up and down the train as if trying to impress someone. "If you're trying so hard, it's because you've got nothing to impress anyone with," thought Harry. Finding a lavatory to change his clothes, he expanded his trunk and put on his casual robes and school cloak, pulled his black hair back and held it in a pony tail, and went out in search of a compartment.

It was time to begin killing the stupid image of The-Boy-Who-Lived.

His first opportunity came soon, for after walking the length of two cars the wave of gossip had bounced up and down the moving train, whispers of the great Harry Potter being on board the Express running rampant. "Arseholes, they've got power to shape the world and waste it worshipping Voldemort, Dumbledore and good old me," he mumbled under his breath.

As he was about to walk into the third car, a red-haired boy out of breath beat him to the sliding door and jumped back, looking at him up and down before fixing his gaze on Harry's forehead. "It's you! I've been looking all over the bloody train! Wow, you really are Harry Potter... Can I touch your scar?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your scar, can I touch it?"

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr..."

"I'm Ron," the boy said and extended a hand. Although Harry failed to grab it and shake, the boy continued to speak. "What's that fancy cloak, acromantula silk? Wicked! And why d'you have those girly pictures on it?"

"Mr Ron, please stand aside," Harry asked, tired of the fan-boy standing on his way.

"What d'you mean?" the red-head asked, clearly confused.

Harry drew one of his wands and, placing it lightly on the boy's chest, tried to push him away. "I wish to stop wasting time with you, now move!"

"Bloody hell! Who d'you think you are Potter?"

"I am Lord Harry Potter, Duke of Druidmoor, the Red Knight and Head of House Potter! Now stand aside, little boy, before you insult me any further," he declared to an already congregated audience of two dozen witches and wizards from both ends of the train.

The group parted to let him walk through and he congratulated himself on pulling the aristocratic act off while smiling at the excited murmurs and pointed fingers. He almost laughed at a blond boy who said he was going to ask his father to order new cloaks with his family crest on them. Poor boy didn't realize that only the Head of the Family has the right to wear the crest, and unless his father was a ghost, the boy had no title.

He sat inside a vacant compartment and kept the door open while he read a magazine. A lot of boys and even some girls came to introduce themselves properly and greet this unknown Harry Potter who took exception to bad manners, didn't like people gawking at his scar and had more titles than the mighty Albus Dumbledore according to the rumour mill.

Hours later the train began to slow down and the Prefects announced their arrival at Hogsmeade Station in fifteen minutes, prompting everyone to collect their belongings and dress accordingly. He folded his magazine and prepared to disembark, stepping on the platform to hear a booming voice calling for first years.

Harry refused to follow and instead boarded one of the carriages pulled by strange winged black horses along with a trio of older Gryffindors. They had told him that as a first-year he was supposed to take a boat across the lake but simply answered he didn't want to.

"But you're _supposed_ to go in the boats!"

"Why?" he asked, enjoying the shocked look on their faces.

"Well... Er... Because... Hmmm..."

"See? It doesn't matter, and I don't want to. I'm going with you," Harry stated, pulling his magazine from an inside pocket and reading again.

The carriage dropped them on the steps of the castle and he observed the enormous building for a moment, before shrugging and walking inside, following everyone else into the Great Hall. He looked for a place to sit but only saw the four House tables and a table for the staff, and since he hadn't been sorted yet, he couldn't just sit somewhere and state a preference when he really didn't have one.

A fair brunette wearing the badge that identified her as Head Girl approached him and crouched. "Are you a first year?"

He nodded affirmatively and the girl motioned for him to follow her back through the closed Great hall doors, and he was faced with around forty girls and boys waiting to be sorted.

"Here he is, Professor McGonagall. He was already inside."

"Thank you Miss Marbles, now we're complete. Young man, step in line with the others please," the old witch commanded, leaving no room for discussion.

The doors opened and there was a three-legged stool right in front of the Headmaster's Chair, in broad view of all the House Tables, where an old hat sat. Harry had insisted, threatened and even whined but no one would tell him _how_ he was supposed to be sorted in Hogwarts, so this was all going to be a surprise.

After the first name was called, alphabetically by family name, he understood that the hat was the sorter, and he kept paying attention to the names he recognized from the information he'd gathered via Peter Pettigrew and the ever dubious Hadrians.

Not soon enough, Potter, Harry was called forth. He walked at a sedated pace, allowing his cloak to billow with every step and ignoring the stares from the Staff Table. When he reached the stool, he picked the hat, sat down and placed it on his head.

"A great mind addled my misfortune... Yes, and powerful too," the hat spoke. "There's a great sense of purpose, a will to triumph and change the world, which can only lead to... _Slytherin!_" screamed the hat, and Harry removed the garment to find an astonished, absolutely silent Great Hall looking at him.

Behind him, however, Head of Slytherin and Potions Professor Severus Snape sprayed pumpkin juice all over the staff table, before expressing himself most sincerely. "_What the fuck?!_"

* * *

Notes:

1.- The exchange rate will be 50 Pounds to a Galleon in this story. That's around 100 U.S. Dollars for 1 Galleon.  
2.- I hope the evolution of Harry's language and behaviour is believable. He struggles to speak better as the month passes, and will only fall back to his more vulgar ways when threatened or angry.  
3.- All titles and peerage are made up, and the recitations inside the London Tower are for fairness in rule, faithfulness and nobility respectively.


	4. Chapter 4: Declare thy Purpose

**Chapter 4: Declare thy Purpose**

Headmaster Dumbledore was the first to break out of his stupor after Harry's sorting into Slytherin and admonished Professor Snape for the use of vulgar language. "Severus, mind your words if you please. We _are_ supposed to be an example to all pupils."

The remaining first years were then called one by one while Snape continued to shoot daggers at the confident boy politely greeting pupils dressed in cloaks with green and silver trims. Harry still held his long hair in a ponytail, providing an uncluttered view of his famous scar, and after a few name exchanges pulled his magazine from a pocket again, glancing in the direction of the three-legged stool over his stylish gold-framed spectacles after each round of applause.

Ignoring whatever Dumbledore blurted out after the sorting ended, Harry concentrated on his housemates. Bulstrode was a portly girl with very intelligent eyes and an appealing smile, next to her sat another girl who introduced herself as Tracey only, probably the only first-year that was shorter than Harry himself at that table.

On Tracey's right sat the regal-looking and very tall Greengrass heiress, looking down her nose at everyone else while the boy he'd heard planning to order new cloaks with his family crest on them laughed and pointed at the sorted boys and girls in the other Houses. This Malfoy child was trying too hard to impress everyone but only succeeded in drawing the attention of Crabbe and Goyle, two very big fellows who wouldn't have introduced themselves if Malfoy hadn't elbowed them.

Immediately to his left sat Parkinson, a girl whose dark hair rivalled Harry's own in blackness, she had a slight sneer on her face and kept looking curiously back at him, and finally to his right he observed a quiet boy named Theodore who was pulling small vials from his pocket. When asked, he'd explained they were health potions he was required to drink every day and Harry recoiled at the smell coming from some of them. The last Slytherin addition had been another boy, named Zabini, who didn't look Italian at all but who was he to judge?

"Tuck in!" he heard and plentiful food popped on the table, an effect Harry was used to after purchasing his own house-elf. He picked some light snacks and chanced a look at the Staff Table, from where Dumbledore continued to observe him intently with a puzzled look in his bearded face, while his Head of House's face was that of pure loathing.

"I guess Professor Snape isn't much agreeable with the result of my sorting," Harry said loudly.

The table erupted in laughter around him but the nearest older housemates seemed to be of the same mindset as Snape and kept scowling at him. He finished his frugal serving and pushed the plate back, where it disappeared with a pop, and stood up. "Excuse me but I'm finished. I'll meet you inside our common room," he announced.

"What do you think you're doing Potter?" a girl wearing a Prefect badge asked from a few yards up the table.

"Leaving," he answered and walked to the closed doors of the Great Hall, which he tried to push and then pull open, to no avail. Sighing, he turned to see a smiling Headmaster looking back at him from across the room.

"We are yet to complete the Welcoming Feast, my boy. Tell one of the Prefects if you need to use the little boy's room," the ancient wizard instructed as if he were talking to a five-year-old, which incensed Harry's notoriously short temper.

Gritting his teeth at the laughs and pointed fingers, he narrowed his eyes and stood taller in front of the doors. Or as tall as a malnourished boy could, anyway. "I can assure you that I'm quite capable of controlling my bladder, Headmaster Dumbledore. As for my presence until the end of the Feast, will I be required to participate in any capacity other than as a spectator?"

"You will do as the headmaster says, Potter! Five points from Gryf--" Snape yelled but cut himself short, realizing he was about to take points from the wrong House, and if he carried on, he'd be taking points from his own Slytherins. "Just go back to your seat!"

"I'm afraid not. It's my prerogative as a Hogwarts pupil to expect respectful treatment and to receive a reasonable answer to a reasonable question."

"How dare you--"

"Severus, please," whispered Dumbledore while raising his hand in a placating gesture. He then raised his voice and said "There are several start-of-term announcements the alumni are requested to hear, my dear child."

"Requested, not required. I can read the announcements on the board, now please open these doors or I _will_ make my own way out," Harry said as the entire population of the school turned their heads back and forth as if watching a tennis match.

"Alas my boy, I cannot give a single student special dispensations, you will be allowed to leave soon enough," replied Dumbledore with a mad twinkle in his eyes.

"If that's the way you wanna play it," thought Harry, walking back to the Slytherin table. However as he passed a suit of armour he grabbed a battle mace, stepped up to one of the coloured glass windows, and with a mighty swing and green fire in his eyes began hitting it once, twice, three times until shattering it thoroughly in a shower of brilliant glass shards he stepped away from.

Harry then tossed the heavy mace on the table, turned and jumped over the glassless stone arch, searching his way into the castle through any other doors he could find. Behind him, the shards regrouped and reformed the broken window as if he'd never touched it at all.

The Great Hall fell into absolute silence for the second time that night, and Albus Dumbledore pushed his half-eaten plate of shepherd's pie away.

Once around the tallest tower, Harry finally found another set of doors leading into the castle. He then began questioning the portraits to find his way to the Slytherin dormitory, but the few that actually talked back to him after listening to his request simply didn't know for sure or told him he should already know how to get there.

It was after he asked a bald portrayed wizard for directions and found himself staring at a dead-end, a wall full of paintings depicting magical fauna from all over the world, that he received some unexpected help.

"Bloody fuckin' castle! Doesn't _anybody_ know how to get to the effin' Slytherin quarters?!" he huffed throwing his arms in the air.

"If only he wasss worthy..." heard Harry from somewhere, the voice thin, almost like a hiss instead of speech. "We could tell him the way to the nessst... If only he wasss worthy..."

"Who's there?"

"He claimsss to hear usss... We believe he isss worthy..."

"Ridiculousss, we have no proof!"

"We mussst show him the way if he isss..."

Harry began searching the corridor but found nothing, except for the moving paintings. And then, in one of them, he saw a three-headed snake following his every move. The plaque underneath it read _Runespoor, African Continent_.

"Are you ... talking to me?" he asked, but then concentrated on the magical reptile. "Ssspeak to me again!" he demanded.

"Yesss, he isss worthy!" the creature hissed. "Follow usss, young massster..." it said and began to slither out of its frame, turning into a lively, moving stone relief on the wall. The runespoor then stayed close to the floor, avoiding windows and other paintings, leading Harry deep into the castle through hidden passageways and down to the dungeons.

He followed the beast around a corner and the runespoor called for him. "Ssspeak to usss massster, give usss your word to passs..."

Thinking of a word, he decided to use his knighthood: "Ssscruffgoat," he said and the three heads bowed, one by one.

"You may call usss anywhere in the cassstle, massster. Call for Pang..." the first head said.

"...call for Ping..." the other continued.

"...call for Pong," the last one finished.

The helpful beast turned tail and disappeared when the blank wall opened to revealed a large square room filled with luxurious round tables suitable for one or two people to sit around, dozens of stuffed armchairs and a series of alcoves in opposite walls, green drapes used to block the view from the rest of the room into them and skulls carved all over the bare stone walls. On the far side, two opulent arches led to what Harry believed to be the boys and girls rooms, and a fire pit circled by a silver rail in the shape of a huge serpent dominated the very centre of the common room.

Sitting in one of the armchairs that faced the now closed entrance, Harry relaxed and continued to read, waiting for the rest of the Slytherins to arrive.

"Now, this is our doorway," someone said from beyond the entrance, alerting Harry to put away his reading and sit straighter. "Our password is 'bloodshed', remember it and never allow anyone else to hear it."

"Strange," thought Harry, "I thought the password was the one I'd chosen with the runespoor." He made a mental note to test his own password as soon as he could.

He smiled as the group of new and old Slytherins starting pouring in and froze upon seeing him. "Hello, I've been waiting for you."

"It's Potter!" exclaimed a bunch of them.

"How the hell did you get in?" the leading Prefect asked.

"Password," he said and shrugged. "Now, if you could show me to my room?"

The Prefect scowled fiercely and then showed them the Rules of Tradition for Slytherin. They were written in an old parchment hung on the wall with a thick, decadently ornate silver frame carved with snakes and skulls surrounding it all around.

Harry stepped up to it and began to read while the older boy recited the Rules to them. Slytherins were _always_ the better wizard. They were _never_ to disturb elder housemates for any reason. They were _required_ to submit to an elder housemate's request. And lastly but most importantly, they were _free_ to try any kind of magic within the confines of the Slytherin Dungeons.

This puzzled him in many ways, first because the framed text was quite different from what the Prefect recited, and second, why hadn't any of the others pointed out that fact? The parchment on the wall was signed by Salazar Slytherin, but it was a Code of Honourable Conduct, not a literal mandate to turn younger kids into slaves, nor a supremacist declaration of superiority by simple affiliation to his House!

The first paragraph read that only the worthy would lead the House of Slytherin, welcoming those of pure ancestry to the path of magical studies, and finally thanking them for accepting the burden of carrying the mantle of Slytherin in the search for greatness.

_Code of Honourable Conduct_

_for House Slytherin_  
_after I leave this Realm_

_Welcome worthy witches and wizards of wicked tongue and sharp senses, for you shall lead the House of Slytherin by this Code. Welcome peers of pure ancestry and magical might to the path of learning, for you shall study that which makes us rightful masters above all others. Welcome bearers of the mantle of Slytherin, for you shall accept the burden of power. I thank you for your presence, knowing you shall strive to achieve greatness above all else._

_First item of the Code._  
_Every witch and wizard of the Realm shall bow to the Greater Power and abide to Its will, for Magic is Might and it runs in our ancient blood._

_Second item of the Code._  
_Respect the elders of House Slytherin and acknowledge their superiority, for they have walked the path you are still to travel. Respect your equals of untainted blood by honouring your word, speaking your mind and keeping your peace._

_Third item of the Code._  
_Practice all Magic to the fullest extent of your powers, for within the walls of House Slytherin there shall be no frowning upon Dark or White Magic. Seek the power of Magic itself, for it is absolute in every form and it shall guide you in your quest to achieve greatness._

_May your Magic flourish and lead the Realm into prosperity, ruling above the impure and the inferior._

_Salazar Sulayman Slytherin_

"Wake up, Potter! You can't read that unknown script no matter how long you stare at it," Malfoy laughed and walked away.

Harry looked at the retreating boy over his shoulder and wondered if he was the only one able to read it. Judging by the looks in everyone else's faces, he was. "Doesn't hurt to try," he said out loud, keeping this knowledge to himself.

At last the Prefect finished his duties pointing at the right archway and saying "females", then at the one to the left and saying "males" before going down that last flight of steps. The first years were left to themselves and Harry decided to retire to his room in order to inspect his accommodations.

There were seven steps down and then a long corridor that ended in a decagon with, predictably, nine doors and the archway from whence Harry emerged. Two of the doors were unmarked while the others had decadently fancy number plates ranging from one to seven.

He entered door number one and found an heptagonal small chamber with six large alcoves. The chamber had a few sofas and a low table in the centre but the alcoves were almost an individual room by themselves, minus one wall and without doors but with the same heavy green velvet curtains that blocked the view in the smaller recesses of the common room.

Inside each was a large enough bed to hold four adults easily, a desk and matching bookcase stood by one of the walls, and a large wardrobe in matching dark mahogany and carved skulls leaned against the opposite wall. Harry saw that five of the beds had trunks at their feet, and realizing he had his own shrunken inside a pocket, walked into the only empty alcove.

Testing the bed and finding it hard enough, though he preferred it even harder, he narrowed his eyes and thought about how problematic the Third Rule as enunciated and accepted was. Probably every other first-year had been asked to do more than questionable things by an older student. More than that, it removed any and all free will from a Slytherin pupil unless he or she could find leverage to defend himself or herself.

In fact, Harry was experienced enough to understand that this was an open invitation to initiation by rape and sexual slavery to any elder dishonourable housemate or, at the very least, to turn younger boys and girls into all-purpose servants! "Bugger it all, I've gotta protect myself..."

"Waxball!" he called after a while, making a decision that might reap more benefits than any trouble he might get into with the older Slytherins.

The house-elf took a few seconds to arrive and bowed low, waiting for his orders while resting his blubber belly on the cold stone floor. Harry went to his desk and scribbled a long note on parchment before ordering the elf. "Give this to Roben, wake him up if you have to and then go bang your head with the frying pan for it."

Waxball popped back next to him almost an hour later and presented a medium-sized golden square box while bowing. Harry picked the container and opened the lid, revealing twenty-five ward stones and a Formal Feudal Protection Notice, already active under the Seal of the Ministry for Magic and sponsored by Onionsupple, binding any and all who sign their name or press a family ring in the charmed parchment to House Potter. He was thus legally able to protect those signatories by any means necessary.

"Good," he said after reading the notes the trusty barrister had sent him. Harry peeked out the curtains and saw Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle trying to see what was happening inside in turn. He rolled his eyes and put one of the warding stones in the approximate centre of the alcove, which was almost under the left front leg of the bed.

Swiping his palm on the cutting edge of his black dagger, he let the blood soak the runic stone and a faint red bubble exploded from it, creating a nine yards wide blood ward that, although weak, was enough to repel an ill-intentioned witch or wizard for a few minutes and alert him to the danger.

"I hereby allow passage and survival to Peter Pettigrew in Animagus form only," he said while tapping the stone with his wand and unlocking the trunk where the aforementioned rat-turned-hamster was. The petrification should have dispelled hours ago, Harry being still too young a wizard, and he was ready to catch the irritating Death Eater should he try to escape.

Watching the rodent's beady eyes through a slit of the barely open lid, he greeted. "Hiya Peter! Sorry 'bout your tail, but look at it on the bright side, you'll be able to shag a whole new species now!"

Harry laughed and then turned to a more serious matter. "I've put up a defensive ward for my room, it'll only allow you as a rat, never as a wizard, so remember that. I also wanna get my hands on that map you told me about, so I'm gonna let you free to enter the Caretaker's office and check for it there," he said and then narrowed his eyes. "If you even _think_ about running away, I've got Waxball to sic on you. I'll have him throw your puny rat's arse into boiling oil, so don't tempt me!"

These house-elves were interesting things, they knew exactly where their master was at any given time, but they'd also home in on anyone they feel great need to meet or is important for their master. In this case, Harry knew that his elf could find Pettigrew in a heartbeat.

After the calico hamster left, the boy who once lived to survive the day fell back on the enormous bed, planning his long-term goals and confident his life was only going to get better. Magic was power and he was going to use it to achieve greatness, exactly what Salazar Slytherin wanted for his chosen ones.

* * *

Harry was walking up from the dungeons after having breakfast and receiving his class schedule from a furious Professor Snape. He shielded his eyes from the streaming morning sunlight as it reflected on the grimy stone, mentally reviewing his books and study material. For a child who dropped out of school so long ago, his progress at reading and writing was something to be proud of, and he was truly exited about learning because it was something _he_ had decided to do.

Briefly wondering if Peter was having any success in his quest, he stopped a few feet away from his Slytherin housemates and leaned against the wall, observing the group. Much like he did in the streets, Harry wanted to know who he was dealing with. The Malfoy boy was educated enough but besides trying too hard to impress everyone, seemed to lack self-control, which admittedly was the thing he'd fumbled most with during the month he became a student to Lord Greengrass. Speaking of whom, his granddaughter young Miss Greengrass was _beautiful_, but _definitely_ out of bounds or else he'd be hung by his toenails and fleshed alive just for ogling her.

The other girls and boys in his year looked like an interesting mixture of regular children, pureblood fanatics and dumb inbred simpletons, but he needed to analyse the rest of his House to both defend himself and build a circle of acquaintances he could trust in times of need. Offering the protection of House Potter and those nifty ward stones would provide good leverage for that.

His mental planning was put on hold when a loud pack of Gryffindors approached the Potions classroom from the other end of the hallway. Harry hoped the annoying ginger leading them would keep his fan-boy attitude to himself today, but after that brief encounter on board the Hogwarts Express he sincerely doubted it. On second thought, this could become a fun morning after all!

"Malfoy, can I ask for a minute of your time?"

The blonde boy arched an eyebrow and walked towards Harry. "What is it Potter?"

"When the ginger simpleton over there tries to hex me, place a Protego shield over Miss Greengrass," Harry instructed. "Oh, but whatever happens, _don't_ touch her..."

"What makes you think I'd be able to--"

"Don't take me for a fool, Malfoy!" hissed Harry, "I know what your father is, he must have taught you much more than a shielding spell by now."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and his right hand went into his pocket, probably to grab his wand, but Harry's was faster and he clamped a forceful grip on Malfoy's wrist.

"Control yourself, do as I say and we can talk properly later today. Agreed?" he asked, holding the boy's arm and staring him down with his green-fire in the eyes magic trick. Herr Schwarzherz would be proud.

Watching Malfoy pale to almost ghost-white and nod, Harry smiled and ticked an item on his to-do list. He now had leverage over Draco, and he would have the Greengrass hottie indebted to Malfoy in turn, giving him a chance with Daphne by saving her from the unworthy Death Eater spawn.

"Ah, Mr Weasley, is it not?" said Harry, approaching the Gryffindors. "I wanted to allow you to apologize for the way you behaved towards me yesterday."

The boy standing next to Weasley, a round faced fellow Harry remembered chasing a toad up and down the train, tilted his head and looked curiously back at him. On the other side a freckled boy whispered something to a taller housemate, whose cloak was open and revealed a football shirt he recognized as West Ham United. "Wicked! A football fan!" thought Harry; he'd given up on ever watching another game but now he had some hope.

"Bloody hell! No, I won't talk to some Slytherin dark wizard that defies Dumbledore!"

"I must say, Weasley, that so far you're the most radicalised and uneducated young wizard I've had the displeasure of meeting," Harry said, bracing himself for the hex he was sure Weasley would throw at him.

"Shut up! I'll show you who's ineducationed!" the short-tempered boy screamed and hurled a stinging hex that Harry dodged. The hex spluttered against a shield that Draco had erected and Harry noticed the smug face he sported when Daphne recognized who'd protected her.

"Well, that was weak," thought Harry, standing up and throwing a stinging hex of his own at the boy's left arse cheek.

"Expeliarmus!" yelled Weasley, his face red as a ripe tomato.

Harry pulled the nearest person in front of him, a bushy-haired brunette he hadn't seen before, and the disarming spell hit her in the chest, causing the book bag in her hand to fly away. Unfortunately for him, the girl seemed to take offence at being used as a human shield.

"_Idiot!_" she yelled and swung around, impacting her fisted right hand into his jaw with a perfect uppercut movement. That insult was the last thing Harry heard that morning before the world faded to black.

* * *

"Mr Potter?"

"Owww..."

"Mr Potter, wake up!"

Harry opened his eyes and came face to face with an old lady peering down at him. "Where am I, my fair and kind lady?" he asked, pulling his repertoire of appropriate greetings. He laughed inwardly when he noticed the woman blushing and sputtering an answer.

"H-hospital Wing, Mr Potter. You were attacked in the hallway leading to the Potions Classroom."

Now he remembered. "Damn, that girl packs a punch!" he thought and laughed out loud.

"I fail to see what's funny, child. You could have been seriously injured!"

"Thank you for your concern, milady. It just happens that I haven't been knocked unconscious by a fist to the face since I was six years old!" Harry explained, and then sat up on the bed.

"No, no. Please lay back down, Mr Potter. I am Healer Pomfrey, and _I_ will be telling _you_ when you can sit up and leave," she said and began waving her wand over him.

Recognizing some of the spells Healer Kevorkian had used on him, Harry relaxed and began humming a tune, winking at the Healer and enjoying her frowning reaction. "Am I fit for school, Healer Pomfrey?"

"As far as I can tell... Yes. However, before you leave, someone stopped by between classes and left a note for you."

He accepted the folded parchment and opened it. It was written in a smooth flowing script he could never dream of achieving, and the words were carefully chosen but impersonal. For some reason he smiled, and wondered if he should write a note back or simply approach her in person that evening.

Harry left the Hospital Wing with a polite bow to Healer Pomfrey and, because it was five minutes to lunch time, walked out of the castle to call for Caesar the white gyrfalcon with a loud whistle.

Caesar alighted himself on Harry's outstretched arm and then moved to his shoulder, waiting for him to finish scribbling a note, which he tied to the animal's leg and then whispered the addressee, heaving the large bird up and into the air. With a quick look around, he turned and walked towards the Great Hall, his fancy cloak billowing with every step.

Knowing he was in for some teasing in the table, since they _were_ children after all, Harry steeled himself and sat close to Draco and a very unpleasant Goyle, what with his table manners or lack thereof. He looked around and even Daphne had a smirk on her lips, "Yes, yes, laugh it up. I was tumbled to the ground by a girl, the _Muggle_ way..."

Laughter erupted and while some were laughing _at_ him, making fun of the boy-whose-mother-was-a-mudblood, others had a genuine expression of mirth. He was surprised to discover Crabbe among them.

Looking beyond the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, Harry tried to find his boxing opponent and finally spotted her as Caesar dove to land gently among the Gryffindors. He smiled at her surprised look and felt amused when she blushed and folded his note, looking both sides before ducking her head and continuing to eat. She didn't throw the note away, however.

So, after an oh so enjoyable lesson on History of Magic with Binn's father, who was actually a _ghost_, Harry went down to his alcove and changed into a comfortable evening robe, picked his Swiss-zauberer-made pocket watch, resealed his expanded trunk and walked back up to the main courtyard. As a gentleman should always do, he arrived early and held a flower for the lady. Unfortunately he plucked almost all flowers from one of the flowerbeds in the courtyard before finding the perfect one, leaving a maimed bush behind, but that's beyond the point.

"Good evening Miss Granger. Thank you for agreeing to meet me," Harry said and offered the flower. "I also thank you for your concern, I'm feeling well as you can see."

"Thank you... For the flower, it's beautiful," she said. "Oh, and please call me Hermione."

"I see you _do_ have manners after all, Hermione."

"Of course I do!"

"And a temper..."

Hermione sagged and sat on the bench, inviting Harry to sit with a gesture. "I'm sorry Mr Potter. Is Mr Potter the right way to call you? I mean-- Urgh... I've under a bit of stress since your little friends harassed me for being a Muggle-born yesterday on the train, and that little tantrum of yours last night isn't very reassuring either!"

Harry chuckled and enjoyed the indignant look in her face. "First, you can call me Harry inside the school. Mr Potter is good enough in wizard company, although I prefer Lord Potter. Secondly, stress can be fought easily by the educated witch. Thirdly, whoever harassed you based on your blood status is certainly not in a friendly relationship with me. And finally, I _told_ the headmaster that I would be finding my own way out. I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable because of my recent actions."

The girl snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd say my right hook can take care of you before you ever manage to make me uncomfortable."

Wincing, Harry had to admit she was right, but only because she got him by surprise. "Most likely, Hermione. As I wrote in my invitation, it lifts my heart to meet someone who fights back when wronged, even if the method used is less than pleasant for the receiver."

"Thank you Harry ... I guess?"

"You're most welcome," he answered with a smile.

"There's something ... off ... about you though, oh great Lord Potter," Hermione said with a chuckle and peered over his rectangular spectacles. "It doesn't come naturally, does it Harry?"

No longer amused, Harry frowned and asked "What doesn't?"

"The speech, the way you move... My mum and I, we work with disadvantaged, abused children in the summer, she's a dentist and she takes me to play with these kids. You... You've got the same haunted look in your eyes..."

Floored twice in the same day by the very same girl, physically and metaphorically, Harry reverted to his old habits. He pulled his dagger and pressed it against Hermione's narrow waist. "Say one word to anyone, and your suspicions will be the last of your thoughts."

"If you wish," she said, never looking down at the blade, instead facing him squarely.

"Stop it!"

"I'm not doing anything, Harry. Truth is, I don't know much about you except for what's written in the books, but I'd say whoever raised you all these years hasn't been doing a good job..."

Growling, Harry closed his eyes and made a mistake. When he opened them again, the tip of Hermione's wand was pressed against his throat.

"I've already learned to cast the cutting spell by myself, Harry. Please don't tempt me?"

"Fuck!"

"What? No dinner and a flick first?"

As much as he wanted to deny it, and told himself he was way too young to do the wonky stuff he'd seen adults doing when he roamed and lived in the streets, Harry couldn't stop the rush of blood to certain developing regions of his body after hearing her flippant retort. He was reaching puberty and had already entertained some fantasies about Miss Greengrass, but now he'd be surely assaulted by visions of a feisty brunette as well.

"I'll pull mine if you pull yours," Hermione announced after a minute of silence, although she looked like she could see exactly what Harry's thoughts were. He'd been taught extensively about proper wizarding etiquette this past month and knew that acting on such carnal instincts was frowned upon, but then again he wasn't one for rules much.

"Do you know the difference between those savages you help during the summer and me, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, please lift the blinding mantle of ignorance from my eyes, Lord Potter."

"I was given the power to choose. Since then I've _chosen_ to live my own life, to become a better wizard and to unlock the might of my magic. I _want_ to speak well and to act like an educated gentleman, and that sets me apart from them." Harry pulled his dagger and swiftly sheathed it inside his robes, before pushing Hermione's temper. "You do realize that giving a savage good teeth does _nothing_ to help them, do you not?"

"How dare you! It certainly does help them, I've seen some kids smile probably for the first time in their lives!"

"Does a smile stop the beatings?" asked Harry, coming closer and pressing his neck against the tip of her wand.

Hermione chewed her lower lip and looked down, silent for a moment before glaring at Harry, who had a smirk on his face. "Well, at least it's something! It's not like they could wave a wand and be done with it!"

"Exactly!" Harry exclaimed, enjoying how hot the Gryffindor girl looked all flushed and ready to attack him. "They have no power, Miss Granger! No power to overcome their savagery, no power to defeat those that wish them harm..."

"No power to escape some crazy wizard who likes to kill innocent Muggles! I _know_ all about your kind, Lord Potter. I've read the events of You-Know-Who's rise to power!" Hermione spat the words to his face while her wandtip sparked.

"_My_ kind? Didn't you listen to me before? I'm not an idiotic pureblood fanatic that can't see the truth of the world. Blood status is _irrelevant_, Granger, because only power matters! I _survived_ Voldemort because of my power, and I'm going to use that power to bring wizardkind into a new era of enlightenment alongside all other creatures of this world!" Harry spoke, standing tall, pressing his body to the girl's extended wand as he declared his intentions with anger and desire clouding his better judgement.

Hermione was breathing deeply, her sparkling eyes still locked with his as she lowered her wand. She remained silent after a while and Harry took it as his cue to leave.

"I'd think twice before telling anyone of your beliefs regarding my background," he said and took a step back. "As for those books you mentioned? They're all rubbish. Good evening to you, Miss Granger."

As he was walking away, she called for him. "Harry? You're just a kid..."

With a deep sigh, he paused but didn't turn to face her. "No, I haven't been one for a very long time," he said and entered the castle, his cloak billowing with every step.

* * *

Notes:

1.- I got this idea last night, if Tom Riddle who was a parselmouth entered the Slytherin common room in his first day of school and saw a set of guidelines written in parselscript, would he have interpreted them to his own liking? Also, those guidelines would have been mutilated over time, because no one could actually read the parchment, in this case resulting in the aberrations the Prefect recited.  
2.- Parselscript is supposed to be written parseltongue. I hope it makes sense.  
3.- The word "ineducationed" is misspelled on purpose, think "uneducated".  
4.- Pang, Ping and Pong are three Chinese ministers of the court from the opera Turandot.


	5. Chapter 5: Mind thy Mind

**Chapter 5: Mind thy Mind**

Peter Pettigrew continued to wander the castle, visiting old passageways he remembered and, in more than one occasion, finding new shortcuts he'd never discovered as a student. He hadn't been able to find the Marauders Map in old Filch's office, and after a full day of searching in the storage rooms had returned empty handed to Harry's room. Either it had been destroyed, or a student somehow got hold of it.

The boy had taken him to an empty classroom and demanded to know what happened, he'd been angry but knowing Peter couldn't lie to a direct question, finally believed him. Peter had been relieved, he was already going to have to change his name from Wormtail to something else because of his missing appendage, he didn't want to risk losing more sensible body parts!

"Pinkie is better fitting now, I'll tell the brat to call me by my new Animagus name," he thought while crossing the empty hall leading to the Ravenclaw tower. The hamster began the tiring journey up another flight of steps, aiming for the small crevices that would grant him passage into the Claws' common room.

He remembered fondly of meeting regularly with Saturnina Oddfoot in his seventh year. She'd never been able to suss out how he managed to enter her common room, and they were an item for almost seven months, until he insisted she should join the Dark Lord with him. Oddly, she'd said almost the same words the Potter brat had spat at him in the middle of August.

"Your problem, Peter, is you can't live without someone telling you what to achieve, instead of choosing for yourself. You're brave and smart enough for a Gryffindor," Saturnina had said that night, "but you've got no sense of purpose."

Those were her last words to him, and a year later she'd been found dead along with her family. Of course Harry had been more direct, "You're a bloody slave, some guy shows a little power 'n you drop on your fuckin' knees 'cause you don't know what to do with your life!"

"I _hate_ Potter!" thought Pinkie, formerly known as Wormtail. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"

Squeezing through the crevice, the fat calico hamster pushed himself and, with a pop, landed inside Ravenclaw Tower. He had fourteen rooms to search in addition to the large common area, and knowing how protective these smart and snotty kids were with their books and personal knowledge, he'd be lucky to find a third of the trunks unlocked.

Five hours later, almost three in the morning, Peter had searched everything he could pry open, behind every painting and curtain, under every bed and table. No sign of the blasted map, but he did find lots of _very_ interesting things. Who knew the Claws were such avid Playwizard collectors?

Peter the wizard couldn't make a sudden appearance inside the girls' dormitory, but he was dexterous enough as a rodent to push and roll reasonably sized objects and scrolls, like one he managed to read a bit detailing a necromantic ritual to increase one's memory by sucking the brains of a recently deceased human while offering your own blood to it in exchange. Problem was that sometimes the dead one could spring back to life for a moment and choke you to death; no matter how smart you might have become, an intelligent corpse is still a corpse.

He took care to pick only questionable items, so that whoever owned them couldn't make a fuss since he or she couldn't very well say "someone stole my killing deck of cards" when they would actually _kill_ your opponent. That was a big no-no in Dumbledore's book, but he was sure Twitch would be able to appreciate them.

"Since when do I care what the whelp thinks," he grumbled while pacing the common room. He had to find a way to transport the pile of collected stuff, but how? Peter wondered if he could call that obese elf of Harry's and whispered its name.

About a minute later, Waxball popped close to him and snapped his fingers, disappearing along with all his booty. Peter shrugged and turned into Pinkie, waddling his way out of Ravenclaw domain and looking forward to some well-deserved long hours of sleep.

* * *

Harry had been knocked out of commission by Granger for his first Potions lesson, which not only had become a running joke but also fuelled rumours as diverse as The-Boy-Who-Lived being a squib, of a lover's spat between the snake and the lion, or that Harry Potter had been attacked by his own Head of House by casting the Imperius Curse on an unsuspecting first-year.

He really didn't care, all that mattered was that the collective image of the boy who saved wizardkind had been already dented and he'd be able to act as he pleased while the school tried to come to terms with the many different versions of him. The arrogant Lord from the Hogwarts Express had become a crazed Dark Wizard by first evening, turning into a Squib by next morning and then Boy-Wonder when he excelled in all his first lessons during the week.

All except Potions, which he was about to sit for the first time now. Harry was standing by the door when he saw Snape approaching, he took a few steps forward and bowed his head slightly.

"Professor, I'd like a minute of your time to apologize for missing your first lesson."

Snape sneered at him and clucked his tongue. "Your arrogance is abysmal, Potter. Do you believe yourself to be so important that I even _noticed_ your absence?"

"As a matter of fact I do," Harry sneered back. "Would you have me believe the one who vanquished Voldemort is of no interest to you?"

The greasy-haired man stood taller and towered over Harry, who remained calm despite the urge to draw his sword. Or a stake, actually. After staring at each other for a few seconds, time enough for some of the kids inside to peek out and spread the news of the silent battle between Potter and Snape, the latter turned and walked into the classroom with large strides and a billowing cloak. Harry did the same, including the billowing, and drew a few snickers from the Gryffindors and even some Slytherins.

Finding a seat next to Millicent, who smiled warmly at him, he pulled his cauldron, book and potioneer kit from a pocket when Snape called for him.

"Potter! What do I get if I mix asphodel with wormwood?"

"I don't know."

Snape sneered. "Pity... Where do I find a bezoar, then?"

"I don't know," he answered again, amused by Granger's quivering hand on the air.

"How about if you tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?

"I don't know."

"What _do_ you know, Potter?"

"That you're familiar with snakes and skulls on your arms," he replied casually, making Snape lose his sneer. "That you've chosen to serve a vanquished power, or do you serve it still?"

Now the teacher had began to pale, which was quite dramatic given his already vampiric complexion.

"And that if you raise your wand, hand or voice against me I _will_ declare a Blood Feud against you, allowing me to take necessary action to defend myself," Harry added, fingering the hilt of his sword under the table.

"_Leave!_ Out of my classroom, now!"

It took Harry a phenomenal amount of self-control to stay his hand and _not_ try to decapitate the branded overgrown bat. Besides, had no knowledge of the man's capabilities and like Schwarzherz always said, he mustn't engage an unknown enemy unless there's no other choice. With that determination, he arranged his things, winked at Greengrass and left the room.

"So much for Potions lessons," thought Harry as he walked out of the castle to sit under the morning sun, whistling for Ceasar to come to him. He had felt uneasy looking at Snape's cold black eyes, and his memory of Peter telling him all about the Death Eaters had suddenly sprung forth, almost involuntarily, something he would have to ask the Hadrians about.

* * *

Behind a cluttered desk, in the safety of the Headsmaster's Office, Dumbledore sat sucking on a tangerine licorice while pondering on a certain black-haired boy and his role in a certain prophecy. The fact Harry was alive gave him comfort, but at the same time, he was more of an equal to Voldemort than he would've liked him to be.

If he with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord had fallen prey to the dark, how were them to ever confront each other? Two Dark Lords ruling the word in tandem would be disastrous.

Harry Potter hadn't even purchased a wand, yet Dumbledore had seen him attending class with one. The aged wizard paused to review his memory; it couldn't be, but he remembered Harry using two, no _three_ different wands already. Could it be possible? Or was he so senile that he couldn't even retain such important details as a wizard's wand in his mind?

Most unsettling was his reaction, his absolute defiance of authority when he smashed a window to exit the Great Hall because he wanted to leave. Harry had been reported as involved in a fist fight and supposedly traded spellfire against the youngest Weasley, a boy so good and gentle that could never have provoked anyone.

And worst of all, he'd assumed the role of Potter Head of Family, along with several titles of old that he could claim by blood and inheritance, if his sources were to be trusted.

His contemplations were interrupted by Snape knocking on his door. He allowed him to enter and was about to offer a lemon drop, the tangerine licorices being his own private delight, but the man seemed extremely agitated.

"He knows, Albus. He knows!"

"Thank you Severus, now tell me who, what and how, if you please?"

"Bloody fucking Potter, he knows I have the mark, and the unbelievable thing is, it was Pettigrew who told him!"

Speechless for several reasons, the first being Severus' lack of control and foul language, the most striking being that a wizard thought dead might be alive, Dumbledore blinked and sucked harder on his candy. "Take a seat, Severus, and explain," he indicated, already paling at the implications of this.

"The dunderhead came to class today, wanting to apologize for missing the first lesson and I tested his resolve. He insolently spoke back to me and I ... skimmed along the surface of his thoughts."

Dumbledore frowned but Snape continued to speak. "I saw Peter Pettigrew naming the inner circle of Death Eaters, all of them! Avery, Dolohov, Rosier, Malfoy, Lestrange, Rookwood, me! How the petty wizard ever found out so much I'll never understand, but the memory was real."

Snape finally sat down in front of the headmaster and continued to explain. "Potter's offspring has claimed his peerage as well, he became the Duke of Druidmoor, and you know as well as I who are the only wizards to observe the old titles."

"Regrettably, I do."

"I then wanted to try his knowledge, he failed to answer basic concepts of the art, and then he ... suggested ... I wore the Dark Mark and asked if I still served the Dark Lord."

"He announced it in front of the class?" Dumbledore asked, sagging on his seat.

"He did, but he did it the Slytherin way, in carefully chosen words and with just enough information to make it a threat of full exposure should I ever displease him." Snape said and then decided to voice his real concern. "Could the Dark Lord be alive still, Albus?"

Dumbledore knew Voldemort _had_ to be alive somewhere, but Snape only knew the first lines of the prophecy, which only spoke of someone born with great power. Sighing, he reluctantly said yes. "I believe he is. However, Voldemort is cunning, and he would be moving his pawns from afar, never allowing them to see who the Master is."

"It would explain the reason Black is still in Azkaban," said Snape. "We should Legilimence the boy, the sooner the better."

"Alas, that I cannot do in good conscience, no matter how much I would like to know his past..."

Snape smiled behind a curtain of black hair. "And that begs the ultimate question, Albus. Wasn't Harry Potter safely hidden with his Muggle relatives?"

"Oh, mighty pile of hippogriff doo-doo," thought Dumbledore, choking on the last bit of licorice. "Indeed Severus, indeed..."

"Headmaster?" Snape asked with a raised eyebrow.

Dumbledore steeled himself and faced the Potions Professor squarely. "I made a terrible mistake, which I will atone for in due time... If that is all, Severus, I'm certain you have other matters to deal with besides Harry Potter."

With a slight bow, Snape left the office and headed for the dungeons, wondering which Master he should truly serve: the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, or both.

* * *

Peter sat on the empty school bench nursing a butterbeer and laughing at the face Snivellus must have made when Harry threatened him in front of all the first-years. It was almost midnight and the runt was still wide awake, finishing his fourth pint and snapping his fingers for the house-elf to bring him yet another.

"Snivellus was in the same year as me. He was a right git, always keeping his abnormally large nose in a book or meddling where he wasn't wanted."

"What 'bout you? Your nose ain't so good after I fix it wrong!" laughed Harry, sloshing some butterbeer on the table.

Touching his mangled nose with an index finger, Peter remained silent and finally asked something he'd been wanting to ask ever since meeting Potter's spawn. "Have you ever ... killed anyone, Twitch?"

The boy set his mug on the table and twirled it with both hands. "You gonna tell anyone 'bout it?"

"Not really. It's just a personal curiosity," the rat-man answered truthfully, since he had no other choice.

"A man you mean? 'Cause I've killed meself cats, dogs, chickens, you know, the lot..."

"Yes. A man, another human?"

With another large gulp of his drink, Harry fixed a dark gaze on Peter. "Aye. I've killed twice. First time was ... not my fault ... mostly. This bloke was gonna snuff me, 'n I just pushed the bloke somehow, I'd say t'was accident magic, he fell over the bridge 'n then on the rails below... I looked down, 'n his head was like, I dunno, bent the wrong way?"

"And the second time?" Peter insisted, feeling this wasn't a young boy's fancy tale but a real experience that he was retelling.

"Tha' one I stabbed meself, cut his bollocks right off, I did," the boy said and trembled a little, closing his eyes briefly and breathing deeply. "I don't wanna talk 'bout it. Finish up 'n turn, I'll put some water 'n cheese inside the cage Blubberball got for you..."

"The elf is named Waxball, he won't answer as Blubberball, Twitch!"

"I don't give a fuck, now _turn_!" Harry yelled.

Peter complied, feeling somewhat vindicated that the boy had enough pain stored to fuel a lifetime of torment. "It serves him right, for defying my Master. Then again, he didn't really, it was James and Lily who did... Merlin, I'm justifying my relationship with Harry bloody Potter!"

That reasoning led him to question his actions in the past month and a half. While it was true he couldn't easily escape, he _might_ have found a way, but deep down the bottom of the potion cauldron, he'd had more fun and felt more alive with Twitch than he'd ever felt in all his years as a Weasley pet. It almost made him feel like a young Marauder again, before the darkness became so alluring, before the promise of power infinite and life eternal became his motivations instead of friendship and love.

Was Twitch headed down that same dark path? Or was he already there? The boy had no love for others, that much was clear, and he'd seen the drive to learn and push his magic to the extreme, aiming for infinite power. Could he achieve power to rival his Dark Lord? And if he did, would he be willing to share it?

No, the boy doesn't share, he trades and bargains, he offers that which he can later collect with interests and benefits. But then again, Peter was a follower, and beggars can't be choosers, they get whatever the Master throws at them. There was no leaving the service of a Dark Lord, however the question was, which Dark Lord would he continue to serve?

* * *

Ten days later the Marauders Map was still missing. Harry had ordered Pinkie to travel the dormitories and common rooms of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, while he kept an open eye for it in Slytherin; the search had become a treasure hunt, every time the rat face went out he'd find more and more interesting stuff. How could the Heads and Prefects allow such amount of potentially deadly objects and information laying around? Then he remembered that a wand was _also_ a deadly weapon.

Speaking of which, he'd become top of his class in Transfiguration, Charms and D.A.D.A., much to the annoyance of several fellow housemates, all thanks to the variety his wands could provide. He still had no knowledge of the origin or even the cores inside his nine inch rosewood and thirteen inches long willow wands, but he suspected the eleven and a half inch yew from that long-dead Auror had some nasty beast bits inside. It took some time to find out which were better for which kind of magic, however by now he was so used to the feel of each, that he'd be able to pull the one he wanted with a twist of either wrist, according to his needs.

"This is impossible!" someone grunted from behind him.

Harry made his feather fly around one of the floating candles illuminating the classroom and then looked over his shoulder. A Hufflepuff boy wearing oversized clothes kept swishing and yelling the incantation, but the feather barely moved.

"How did you do it?"

"Why should I tell you?" Harry asked back, letting the feather fall on his desk.

"Fine..."

"Don't misunderstand me, I haven't denied you help yet. I only asked why."

The boy scrunched his face and bit one of his fingernails. "Because I _have_ to learn!"

"Have to, or want to?" probed Harry, now turning fully on his seat.

"I have to, that's why I'm in school, isn't it?"

"Then no, I won't help you," he said and then charmed the feather to zoom high above, directing it to attack the other feathers below.

"Professor! Potter is messing with my feather!" yelled the annoying Malfoy kid, who still believed being openly hostile to anyone who doesn't follow his every whim was to his benefit. It would be interesting to wipe the floor with his smirking little mama's-boy face one of these days.

"Your grace, may I ask you to please keep your feather away from everyone else's?"

Satisfied by the formal and respectful phrasing, Harry nodded and answered in similar fashion. "You may, Charms Master Flitwick. I will do as you request."

The small being had treated him well ever since first lesson, but had never acknowledged his title before. What changed? Why did he recognize his ducal coronet now and not earlier? Harry hadn't felt the memory pulling sensation he'd had with Snape, which the Hadrians had explained as an effect of light mind-reading when not using the full power of Legilimency, the mind-reading art, so Flitwick must have learned that information by other means.

In a softer voice, the professor asked him to stay behind for a minute after class and then continued to teach the combined Hufflepuff and Slytherin pupils.

"Thank you for gifting me an extended audience, your grace. Shall we be seated?"

"We shall, professor."

"I see Dumbledore has taught you well all these years," said the squeaky professor while sitting on top of a book pile, making him level with Harry.

"Excuse me?" he asked, unable to stop his indignant reply because he was truly surprised that Dumbledore was taking credit for teaching him.

"After an unscheduled staff meeting, Headmaster Dumbledore announced your grace's peerage and confirmed what we had heard as rumours among the school body. We assumed he was protecting you and that his continuous involvement might explain the advanced magic control displayed."

Harry knew that Dumbledore had no observance of peers and titles, for he was no gentleman and Greengrass had gone so far as to let it slide that the headmaster was deemed objectionable for membership at Skullsnatchers and the sponsor, a Mr Althair Doge, had been blackballed as a result of his insistence. It must have been Snape who told him! Harry gulped, wondering how many memories he stole from his mind.

"Professor, while I am grateful for your acknowledgement of one of my titles," Flitwick lifting an eyebrow at this, "I have no allegiance to Headmaster Dumbledore, nor is he responsible for my apparent mastery of first year magic. I _chose_ to study ahead and achieve my maximum potential, to become that which is expected of the one who vanquished Voldemort."

Flitwick squeaked and fell off his enhanced seating. "And what _exactly_ is expected of your grace? Some expect greatness and guidance, others might expect ... evil deeds from you. A few within this very castle might expect you to be a failure as a wizard, I regret to say."

"That, Professor Flitwick, is for me to decide," he answered with a calculating look at the small man on the floor. "It isn't my place to say it but you're very smart, professor. You are the first to ask _how_ I have become proficient at low-level magic instead of assuming it was only natural for the Boy-Who-Lived."

"A habit of old times, I'm afraid. After so many years in the duelling circuit, it became second nature to analyse other wizards."

Now it was Harry's turn to lift his eyebrows. He knew Schwarzherz had been Teutonic Champion seven times and reached the final duel twice in the International Duelling Cup. "Have you traded spells and swords with Herr Schwarzherz, by any chance?"

"Indeed, I have!" said Flitwick and he climbed back on his seat. "An extremely dangerous and evil wizard, he had no mercy for those he considered too weak to reach their maximum potential... Maximum-- Great Grottar, your grace is an apprentice to Black Heart!"

The Charms Master squeaked again and fell over the back of his chair, and Harry had to fight the laughs, managing to contain himself by biting his knuckles. Flitwick was going to share that morsel of information and he was sure fear of retribution by a former Duelling Champion for attacking his apprentice would stop Snape from reading his mind, perhaps even stop him being an insufferable git.

* * *

Sunday morning was a lazy day, even for Slytherins. Harry peeked out his alcove and saw everyone else's closed although it was almost ten in the morning! He called for Waxball and received the daily report on Peter's whereabouts, took the Sunday Times the house-elf was ordered to pilfer from the nearest Muggle news-stand and checked the week's mail that had arrived at his home in Knockturn Alley.

"Damn owl-marketers... Trash. Trash. Free samples, huh? Trash," he continued sorting through the mass owl catalogues wizard companies delivered indiscriminately all over the magical communities and paused upon an odd envelope. It had a leathery feel to it, no address and only an embossed seal on the back: an octagonal shape with several symbols on each side.

"Fuck!" whispered Harry, realizing what the octagon was. "What does Greengrass want with me now?"

He opened the envelope carefully and dropped the contents on his desk, right over his History of Magic essay. A missive written in heavy parchment fluttered down and a small gemstone bounced on the surface and rolled down to the floor. With a sigh, he unfolded the letter.

"Ah... What? Why the fuck don't they write in the Queen's bloody English?!" he ranted, looking up and down the letter written in strange characters.

Throwing the parchment over his bed and choosing his clothes for the day, Harry failed to see the gemstone bursting into black smokeless fire to form a humanoid shape with a toothy grin and large, pure black eyes and a white turban on top. The form began trailing him and vanished in the blink of an eye as soon as the boy pulled the curtains open to leave for a bath, brunch and a bit of time-off with Caesar by the lake.

Harry felt the strange sensation of being followed, but every time he looked over his shoulder he failed to see anyone. He reached the Great Hall and sat at the almost empty table, pulled a couple of sandwiches from a tray, but still kept looking around every couple of bites.

Finishing his goblet quickly, he dropped his half-eaten meal and bolted out of the hall, shaking his shoulders and rubbing his arms to get rid of the goosebumps, whistling for Caesar while jumping down the marble steps of the main door of the castle.

"Someone's walkin' over my effin' grave!" complained Harry, who was looking suspiciously at a group of Gryffindors coming from the Quidditch pitch. He double checked the brooms they carried, making sure they weren't pitches and forks.

Suddenly Caesar spread his wings and took flight, almost pushing harry to the ground, and headed for a round wooden hut on the edge of the forest. He followed his companion and saw the gyrfalcon diving behind the hut, only to fly up again, carrying a limp ferret on his talons.

Cautiously, he rounded the hut and saw a well kept orchard with citrus trees, patches of cabbages, pumpkins and other vegetables neatly lined and tended for. Next to a battered fence stood a barrel of dead ferrets, freshly killed by the look of them, and the largest man Harry had ever seen in his life sat on a huge chair, his feet over a pile of logs and munching on some big cakes while sipping tea from a delicate cup.

"Hullo there, can I help yeh, young 'un?" the man boomed, and Harry remembered the voice from Hogsmeade Station calling for first years.

"Good morning. I would like to apologize for my falcon, he seems to be fond of your ... bucketful of dead rodents?"

"Aye, tha' falcon 's been munching on them ferrets since term started. Dun worry 'bout it--" turning to watch him, the man suddenly stopped and dropped his teacup. "Galloping gorgons! Harry, is that yeh?"

"I'm sorry, do I know you sir?" asked Harry while he repaired the man's cup. Spilled tea was gone, unfortunately.

"'Course I do! I haven't seen yeh since you was a wee little lad. So sad 'bout yer mum 'n da... I delivered yeh ter Dumbledore meself after what happened."

"Did you now?" Harry said with clenched teeth. He wanted to kill the huge bastard, same as Dumbledore, but keeping his vagabond Muggle past a secret was important to fuel the initial destruction of the myth surrounding him. Harry had to cement an idea of power and tradition going back his entire life after the defeat of Voldemort instead a single month.

The papers Cheatham and Roben had procured for him included a transfer of guardianship dated Christmas week of 1981 naming H.J. Plotslip as his legal guardian. The rest of the parchment was obscured permanently and then added to his file as if Dumbledore himself had sealed them, and the wizard had been a known world explorer, which would explain Harry's disappearance from Magical Britain for so long.

He wondered if this man knew why Dumbledore got rid of him as a baby. "So you delivered me to the headmaster. What happened after that?"

"Er... What d'yeh mean Harry? Dumbledore left you with yer aunt 'n uncle, of course, the ones yeh've been living with?"

He was almost there, all he needed now was a name to go with the real obscured transfer of guardianship he had at the Ministry. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask your name?"

"Name's Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o' the Keys at Hogwarts," he said and offered a big hand for Harry to shake, who took it with both of his.

"Harry Potter, but perhaps I should have taken my uncle's name..."

"Dursley? Nah, yeh're looking too much like James, with Lily's eyes. Yer aunt Petunia oughta tell yeh lots 'bout yer mum, don't she?" Hagrid said with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Aunt Petunia married my uncle about the same time as my mother, did she not?" asked Harry, trying to extract more information. After this he would have to ask the Hadrians to search the Muggle world and he'd have plenty of leverage against the headmaster.

"Sumtime later, I remember Lily saying she didn't like Vernon, that she oughta choose better for an Evans."

Bingo! Vernon and Petunia Dursley, nee Evans. If they weren't dead already, they'd wish they were by the time he confronted them. Unless someone had kidnapped him from them by no fault of their own, which wasn't very likely, but with his wonky luck one never knew.

* * *

That same evening found Peter helping Harry's house-elf to sort all the dark and questionable items he'd collected in his rounds. There was a pile for porn and sexual magic that he considered the boy to be much too young to see, a pile for cursed objects and a pile for books and scrolls on harmful magic.

He flipped through the July issue of Playwizard and wondered how much longer Snivellus the greasy git was going to withhold retaliation before goading all the first-year snakes into making Twitch's life miserable. It was going to be fun watching the runt suffering the brunt of Slytherin attacks, and more interesting to see how he reacts.

Looking up from his place on the floor, Peter saw the boy watching over them while drinking his ever-present mug of butterbeer, but he seemed to be worried about something and kept looking everywhere around the room.

"You feeling all right Twitch? You're more ... twitchy ... than ever," Peter asked after the boy looked over his shoulder and under the table for the tenth time.

"Bloody peachy... It's just-- There's this weird feeling of being watched that won't go away!"

The empty classroom they were using was close enough to the dungeons and had the strategic advantage of having two doors leading to separate corridors. It was an advantage in situations when, exactly as was happening now, footsteps announced an unwelcome late-night wanderer. Waxball popped away with everything while Harry slowly made his way to the other doorway and Peter turned into Pinkie, hiding in the shadows.

"Shite! Someone's locked the door!" Peter heard the boy whisper.

Slowly, the opposite classroom door opened and a pale man with a crooked nose, cold dark eyes and a black curtain of hair stepped inside and smirked. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. What a ... pity ... to find you here, Potter. Breaking curfew, and do I smell _butterbeer_ in your breath?"

Pinkie narrowed his eyes and scooted closer to the open door, still hidden but able to hear every word. Snivellus continued to advance on Harry but the boy didn't even flinch, he even went as a far as to properly greet the git!

"Good evening professor. Have you been looking long for me?"

"Do not flatter yourself, silly boy. Now _look_ at me when I speak!"

Snape was advancing on Harry, and Pinkie wondered if the man knew of his Master's fate and was actually working on his orders. Dared he revel himself to Severus Snape, traitor among traitors? He wasn't sure it was prudent, for all he knew the man had sold every Death Eater he knew of to escape Azkaban.

"Why should I? Why would I allow you to perform Legilimency on me without my consent?"

A look of surprise flashed on Snape's face but disappeared in a tenth of a second. The git was a Legilimens? And how in Merlin's name did the boy know about that? "Damn those Hadrians, they probably told him all about the Mind Arts," thought Pinkie while he wiped his whiskers.

"You arrogant fool, if you had an ounce of discipline you would not broadcast your mind louder than the WWN!" said Snape, who then hardened his eyes. "Something _has_ changed, however, has it not? _Look at me, child!_" he insisted, trying to find direct eye contact with the boy.

With a squeak, Pinkie crawled back against the wall. He saw the hardening in Harry's face, and he knew what it meant, having been on the receiving end of those burning eyes ever since he met him in a filthy Muggle building. In a swift, almost inhuman move, Harry had unsheathed his longsword and pressed the tip under Snape's chin.

"Mind your own mind, professor!" he spoke softly at his Head of House while his eyes glowed green.

* * *

Notes:

1.- As far as I know, in a gentlemen's club a person can only become a member by invitation or recommendation. That invitation doesn't guarantee your acceptance into the club, however, since the applicant is then evaluated and granted membership or deemed objectionable, at which point the sponsor (the person who invited or recommended) should desist. If he doesn't desist, he can be blackballed, meaning he loses his membership as well.  
2.- Think of Grottar as one of the old goblin kings, revered by his strength and cunning.  
3.- Much like an animagus keeps his clothes after turning into an animal, a colour-dyed animal can keep its tinge after endless transformations unless it gets washed while in animal form. That being said, Pinkie a.k.a. Wormtail a.k.a. Scabbers will only lose his calico coat if someone cleans him.


End file.
